Surviving, Coping, Living
by EverythingCollided
Summary: "Find a group that will protect you, love you like family." Nevaeh is trying to follow her brother's last wishes, but there is only so much loneliness she can handle. Pain is weighing down on her soul and and she's struggling when she meets Carl, who, with a promise sealed with a pinky, gives her a reason to truly live again.
1. 01

**MIGHT WANT TO READ: I was halfway through writing the fourteenth chapter for this story when I realized that there was a lot about it that I was unhappy with. SO, for the past three months - no joke, it actually took me THAT long to rewrite only two and a half chapters - I've been working on restructuring them. I won't go into what I thought was wrong with the previous version because there is A LOT, but I hope you aren't upset with the slight plot changes(don't fret, they're all decently small ones) and the difference in character relationships that I've newly written. Just re-read through this(you don't HAVE to) and hopefully enjoy it better than the first version of SCL because I know I already do.**

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Safety is a word that is beginning to sound foreign to my ears.

Just yesterday, as we were sitting around the fire brightening up the darkness that we've learned to fear, Gus, the leader, had stood up and uttered the word. We were safe in the small neighborhood that had become our shelter. All of us had cheered in our own silent way, too scared to bring the monsters to us to ruin our triumph. But, a new lesson I've learned lately is that triumph doesn't exist anymore.

Because the next night, twenty four hours later, a hoard of the disgusting creatures found us. They knocked over the wired fences that had been a group effort to put up like they were nothing and marched on. Gunfire ripped through their skulls, an image I hoped I wouldn't have to see and blood splattered everywhere as the decayed bodies fell to the ground. I thought we were winning for a split second. The hope inflated like a balloon in my chest and pushed out all the distaste created from what I was witnessing. My mind was convinced that maybe the dead that had ravaged and overthrown the Earth would lose once, just this once.

Like I said, triumph doesn't exist anymore.

The unanimated bodies on the dirty surface were trampled by more and more walkers and the people who were allowed to have guns couldn't shoot them in time. I watched from my spot pushed to the back of the armed members of my group as the ammo was slowly depleted and the weapons were thrown to the floor. I saw the glint of the knives they were pulled out of their holsters in desperation to protect themselves. Helplessness became my best friend in that moment, draping over me like a heavy blanket and really showing me what this world was like.

People fled, running off in all directions in hope of staying alive and others stayed in front of me stabbing and slicing with all they had. My stomach twisted and turned as I tried to catch the breath I had lost a long time ago. Panic and horror ran through my veins and throbbed in my ears with my rapid heartbeat, loud and unforgiving. Screams soon joined the orchestra as teeth sunk into the skin it could get to. The wails cut through my heart and made it feel as though the organ was slowly shrinking and cracking under the cold fist that had grabbed it the second those fences toppled over.

Tears blurred my vision and my throat was ravaged by sobs that sounded silent due to the the quick breaths leaving my lips as my head whipped around. Concrete driveways were covered in a dark red, the source of the liquid covered by clumps of the undead. Cries sliced through the air in agonizing octaves, replacing the previous frenzied yells. Only when I looked straight did my shrieks join the others. The wave of walkers was advancing even further forward, some dropping to chew on people I used to call my family and others focused on a different target.

Me.

My feet feel weighty when I try to move them and it seems like I'm moving in slow motion while the monsters are stumbling towards me in their natural and nightmare inducing way. This only causes more tears to run down my cheeks as I try to run towards a home that isn't surrounded. The motion in my legs slowly turns on and I begin to sprint through the grass and to the property in my sights.

Until I hit a hole unwisely made in the ground.

I fall forward, my arms hurtfully catching my weight, and immediately push myself up with a strangled sob. A walker grabs my ankle, dragging me back towards the rest of them. It's jaw opens to reveal yellow and black teeth, opening and closing rapidly, hungry for me. I scream over the growls they're making and furiously make an effort to jerk my foot out of it's hold. It's gnarled face is only getting closer and I think, ' _This is it, This is where I die.'_ Just as a sharp blood covered blade slices right through it's neck. The head drops onto my leg and leaves an ugly dark red streak as it slides onto the grass. I can finally wrench my foot out of the decayed hand and after I do I'm pulled up and pushed back towards the home I was running to.

"Go, Nevaeh! Go!" The voice belongs to Mason, my brother, and at the realization my legs almost give out. My fried mind tells my body not to move as I watch him advance towards the rest of the monsters, too concerned for his safety. He decapitates the walkers in a way that always leaves me both disturbed and mesmerized. His movements are graceful and relate to those of a ballerina, though, I wouldn't use that word to describe any part of Mason.

Five of the undead behind the leader that almost took my life are slayed in little time and he looks back at me. I don't even have to see his face to know that worried ' _v'_ shaped mark has indented itself in his forehead, right between his eyebrows. That's a similarity we share and something I've seen a lot of the past two months. The wakizashi sword he found on a run in the early days is put back in it's sheath before he comes racing towards me. His arms wrap around me and lift me off the ground. I clinch my eyes shut as he carries me the rest of the way to the house. Chaos is everywhere and even though I have my eyes closed, images flash across the black surface. Yells overpower my loud ears, and, above that, I can hear their groans and the loud crunching of human skin between their teeth. I search for comfort in something, anything, and I settle with clenching Mason's jacket in my fists.

He got it from a grocery store Mom, him and me searched through. He'd seen it on a hanger with many others and snatched it up immediately, saying, " _This'll make me look cool. People will think I'm a total badass."_ At the time I'd just thought he was an idiot, but when two guys from this group found us on the road, tired and dirty, I could already see the respect in their eyes. And now for all I knew they could be lying dead somewhere on the ground or worse, one of _them_. And _Mom_. The thought hits me so hard my eyes open. What about Mom? Where is she? Why wasn't she with Mason? She wasn't...dead. Right? No. She was not gone. I couldn't think like that unless I had proof.

Mason opens the door to the long ago cleared out house and slams it just as quickly with his foot, putting me down and moving to the table sitting under a mirror in the entryway. He struggles with it's weight, which doesn't look like much, especially for him, but I help him move it in front of the door as best as I can. Hands slide against the oval glass the second it's in place, leaving dirty and red smears in their wake. Mason collapses against the wall instantly, letting out heavy breaths and running a hand through his grimy bright blonde hair that appears as a red-brown at the moment.

My eyes focus on the discolored skin banging on the transparent surface and my voice is small and hoarse when I ask, "Mom. What about Mom?" The sad thing is, a part of me, deep, deep down already knew the answer.

"Gone. Just...gone." He replies, his words laced with defeat and sorrow.

I feel like I've been hit by something painful and huge. I flinch like I have, my limbs giving up their fight in holding me up and letting me fall onto the rug with a thump. My lip quivers and tears blur my vision but don't fall. The lump present in the back of my throat is painful and never in my life have I felt this much agony. Not even when my Dad died, two months before this whole terrible infection happened. Because Mom was there and Mason was there. There were times when I would break down when memories of him were too strong or I saw his picture or heard his voice through some home video. They were always there for that. One of them would hold me or rub my back while I let it out. Most of the time, they cried with me and our mourning intertwined. Other times, I would come across one of them hiding in their rooms with a picture stuck in their hands and I would be the one to help them through it.

All Mason and I had now was each other. We were stuck here, in this house with nowhere to go and no one to look for. The dragging of feet on the wooden boards of the front porch made a shiver go down my spine. I was being strangled, but not by hands. I was being strangled by the weight of the world.

I looked up from my spot across from Mason and wiped at the already dry tear trails on my cheeks in vain. "A-Are you okay?" I question. I know I'm not and the way my hands are shaking in my lap prove just that.

He lifts his head. Little speckles of walker blood showcase themselves on his cheeks, almost like freckles. Some of it crawls up his neck and follows the line of his jaw like a second skin, a darker shade now that it was dry. The brown eyes that we share are puffy and filled with tears that are falling one after another in shiny trails. I don't see Mason cry much and when I do, water fills my own eyes. His hands quickly swiped away his vulnerability and he's wracked with sobs as he says. "N-Nevy, I'm-I'm sorry."

My stomach drops and yet another piece of my heart breaks off. I'm quiet for a minute, sniffing and furiously wiping away at my cheeks. I prepare myself for what he's about to say, prepare myself for the worst thing I can imagine. "...For what?"

Mason stretches out his legs, his boots almost making contact with my knees, and leans forward, gripping the cuffs of his jacket and pulling on them after placing his sword beside him. The piece of apparel is thrown next to him and I can _see_ the guilt shining in his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath. The first thing I notice is the dark staining on the blue material of his shirt, between his neck and shoulder, by his collarbone. I gulp. His fingers reach up and grip the neckline of the fabric, slowly and gently pulling it over his skin. There's blood where flesh is supposed to be. It's expanding everywhere across the area, originating from a wound that looks exactly like I don't want it to. It's right in the area where the collarbone meets the neck and now I know that the splatter of red I noticed earlier is actually _his_ blood.

I surge forward, sitting on his right side. "No. We'll-We'll bandage it. You'll be fine. Y-You'll be fine. Here, let me see if...I can find some bandages...somewhere around here. You taught me how to-" My face is wet again and though I can't see, I start to stand. He can't die. He'll become one of those _things_ if he does and I can't let that happen. I don't want that to happen.

Mason grips my hand and gives a forlorn shake of the head. "No, Nevy. It won't help."

I fall to my knees again, finding solace in the grip of his hand. "What if you're immune? What if you survive this?" I'm grabbing nonexistent hopes out of the air and I know it. That only makes me cry harder.

"Nevy…" He trails off and I know he's doing it because he doesn't want to tell me his death is inevitable. We can't do anything.

When I imagined the worst thing he could be sorry for, this was what I thought about. I didn't believe it would be this bad. But it is.

"You can't leave." I whimper. I shut my eyes tight, trying to get the tears to stop, but that only causes more to come loose. So I focus on his face and try to remember every feature. He's the most popular subject in my sketchbook, being the most convenient and the next time I sit down and want to draw, I want it to be of him. I want to be able to copy his face down on paper without having to look at previous pictures to remind myself what the slope of his nose was like or just how curly his hair always was. I want to be sure of it.

Scenarios pass through my mind, each one depicting what my life could be like without him. I can't do it. He's constantly been there to protect me. He and Mom never let me touch a gun or a single weapon. I was shielded away while one of them handled it. But now, neither of them were going to be there for me and the reality of this comes crashing down on me. I'm buried beneath bricks and bricks of the truth; I'm going to die without them. I'm going to be defenseless.

My distorted stare is cast down to Mason's paling hand. I touch the skin with the pads of my thumbs, trying to push out the parts of my brain that want to imagine what it would look like discolored and decayed. "Mason," I choke out. Fat, wet drops fall against my fingertips. "I'm gonna be alone."

"No." The firm tone he uses makes me tilt my head up to look at him. He shifts himself so he sits on his knees in front of me and rests his unused hand on my shoulder. "Nevaeh, you will _never_ be alone. I'm always gonna be there. So are Mom and Dad. We may not be next to you, but we're in your memories and that's what counts. You're going to get out of here and you are going to run as fast as you can, okay? Run until you find a group that will protect you, love you like family. A group just like this one. Move on from them, from me. You _need_ to live."

The sinking feeling in my gut is growing bigger. He's saying goodbye. Forever. It's not like he's going away for a year of college and he'll see us at Thanksgiving, it's for eternity. I feel weak and part of me just wants to step outside that front door and let them have me. "I can't live out there." I lamented. "I can't use a gun or-or even a knife and what if I can't protect myse-"

Mason shakes me gently, his eyes hard with determination. "I have no doubt that you'll win. You're gonna beat it. All of this. And you can do it without me. You only need yourself." He releases both of his holds on me, reaches behind him and snatches up his sword and jacket, presenting them to me. "And these. You've always thought this was cool and I even taught you how to swing it that one time, so, you're wrong, you do know how to use a weapon. And this jacket. Wear it so you can remember what I said. I'm there with you, Nevy. Always have been." He throws it over my shuddering shoulders before handing the long sheathed blade to me. I wipe at my face as I stare at it. I might be excited if this wasn't a parting gift.

I take it into my spasming hands with a sniffle. "Why...Why are you so okay with this?" I asked. "A walker took a bite out of your _shoulder_."

"I'm okay with this because you're alive." He replies and his lips tug upwards in a soft smile that has my eyes trying to examine the details and my heart clenching with the knowledge that this is the last time I'll see it. "The moment you were born, I made a promise to myself to protect you. And I did." I return the small smile he has sorrowfully as he continues. "I want you to promise me something, Nevy."

I don't respond, don't trust my voice enough to speak anymore. I only nod. "I want you to promise to live. Fight with _everything_ you have. Don't give up until you have to. Promise me that you'll try."

I can barely see anymore, but nod once more. For him, I would. For Mom and Dad I would. They were the only family I had and I was going to be the last one. I had to try.

He sits up so that he's standing on his knees and reaches down. The scratchy sound of velcro echoes against the walls as he removes the holster holding his gun from his thigh. It's a Glock 19 and an object he holds close to his heart. I've never seen him without it since he found it and everytime I see it I automatically think of him. Mason is no longer Mason without this gun. "Here." He says, handing the holster and piece of metal to me.

I meet his eyes with watery ones. "What?" I whisper.

"I want you to be prepared. Guns are for emergencies and if you're in an emergency, I want you to use it."

"I don't know how."

He grips it and slowly talks me through it, and I momentarily forget about the fact that he's on his deathbed. I already see the sweat beginning to form against his brows. The fever's hitting. How long did he have? His voice flew through my ears as he explained the parts of the gun and how to reload. I was trying to memorize it. The deepness and the scratchy nature of it. I heard everything he said and I nodded along, but I couldn't help but be blank through most of the lesson.

When he handed it back to me and I strapped it around my thigh, I wasn't crying anymore. "This is...goodbye. Isn't it?" I murmured and glanced up at him. His expression was stoic and the fact that it was made a part of me mad, but I knew Mason didn't like to cry. Especially in front of me.

He doesn't say anything and I take his silence as a very hard hitting yes. "What about you? Am I gonna have to...k-kill you?" The thought alone brings a bad taste to my mouth.

Mason shakes his head the second the word was uttered. "I'm not gonna put you through that. You leave me here. I'll figure something out. You won't have to do anything."

"And what if you don't figure it out?"

"I _will._ "

That isn't enough for me. I'm not sure anymore how many days we've been running from the walkers, but it feels like it's been an eternity. They're always around every corner. You walk down a road, there they are. You go into a house, there they are. You find a secluded area and think you're good, but there they are. Everywhere. The world is an antpile that got stepped on by a gigantic shoe and now the walkers are crawling out from the depths, angry and biting any piece of human flesh they can get to. They terrify me and just thinking about getting bit and becoming one of them has my stomach clenching and eyes watering. It never occurred to me that it would happen to my family.

My Mom was strong, stronger than I know I'll ever be. She could handle pressure amazingly and her calm demeanor never failed in giving me courage and shooting away my fears. Her hands had grown skilled with a knife in the time since the downfall and could take down walkers before I could even blink. Mason freaked out at first and was clumsy with everything he touched, but grew to be annoyingly cocky whenever he spotted one of the undead and made a few comments before putting them down.

And then there was me who stood by motionless and scared until I knew the thing was dead. I did nothing. I was under the impression that they would live and I would not. Mason would find a girlfriend in this screwed up place and though I didn't like the thought of it, maybe Mom would find a man to love again. Now that the theory was twisted the other way around, I felt as if I was going to combust. The walkers had finally caught up to the both of them and I wouldn't let them become what we've despised.

I clutch the camo material shrouding my shoulders and pull it closer to me even though cold is the last thing I am. "Promise me." I say, my voice clear despite the pain in the back of my throat. "I promised you I would live. Promise me you won't become one of them."

He meets my gaze straight on. " _I promise_." His stare then goes elsewhere, aiming downwards to the beige rug filled with little drops of blood we're sitting on. "Now go. I'm running out of time and you can't be here when I...just hurry Nevy."

I surge forward and wrap my arms around his torso, trying my best not to get near his wound. His heartbeat meets my ears, a rhythm that's supposed to be soothing but instead reminds me that he's gradually withering away under my fingertips. "Thank you."

I sense the shift in his arm as it slowly ascends to stroke my hair in the familiar way I grew accustomed to when I was five. He pulls on a bright blonde curl and I feel it spring back into place as he says, "I love you, kiddo.

 _Kiddo_. A name I've always hated and now wish I had years to complain about him using. I take a deep breath and listen to a thump from the inside of his chest before I pull away. "I love you too." I croak.

The bangs against the front door are growing louder as more walkers from the herd join the group that followed us here. I flinch at each one even though I know we're safe and Mason grips my forearm. The indentation is back between his brows as he nods to something behind me. I shoot a glance over my shoulder to see a sliding door leading out onto a porch. " _Go_." He whispers.

I stand on weak legs and take one last long look at him. Dread and guilt pool together in my stomach as I scan every inch of his features. The expression he wears is neutral. I'm not even sure if he's scared. "I'll...see you later, Mase." I tell him in a quiet voice.

A smile, small and soft crosses his lips. "See you later, Nevaeh."

I organize myself, shedding my backpack to put his jacket over my shoulders. It's heavy against my back and feels like a layer of armor that gives me the strength I so desperately need. The sleeves just go past my nails and I roll them up so they reach my wrists before pulling my bag back on and grabbing the sword off the floor. I sling the strap over my shoulder and attempt to get used to the extra weight it supplies.

My lips release a deep breath as I turn and face my exit. I spare a glance back at my brother, sitting so calmly on the floor and he returns it, sending me one last goodbye through his eyes. I replay the image of his face in my mind, trying to preserve it so I can turn it into pencil lead on paper when I get the chance. _If_ I get the chance.

The converse on my feet thud noisily against the hardwood floors, the boards letting out subtle creaks that reach my ears and admonish me for leaving him behind, alone. I keep on through it, telling myself this is what he wants and replaying his words in my head.

 _Fight with everything you have. Don't give up until you have to._ Over and over again, a mantra in my brain.

The door slides open without a sound and I stop halfway through it. "Goodbye." The word is like a feather, floating away in the wind. One last tear rolls down and stops on my chin. I watch it as it splashes against my shoe and leaves a dot of white on the dirty surface.

I slide the door shut behind me, keeping my back turned away from it because I know I'll rethink what I'm doing if I see him one more time. The first steps are the hardest, knowing I'm leaving him in there to die without anyone to help him through it. My chest feels constricted and physically _hurts_ like someone is gradually stealing the air filling it up. I blame it on my shattered heart and continue on down the wooden stairs, beginning to lose the battle with the developing sobs.

My body wants to just let it all out. I can feel the itch throughout it. The options are either yell or run and I choose run. Legs I have no control over carry me away from the place that ripped up my illustration of hope and peace and held it over fire until it turned into ashes. Further away I get, away from Mason and Mom. The familiar sting in my side from the sprinting is welcomed and the shortness of breath that greets me is taken in as a relieving distraction. Tears dry in the wind that blows through my curls and the air is clear.

I forget. In my rush around the greenery, I'm invincible. Too fast for the walkers, too fast for emotions to scramble and cloud my vision. I forget about the traumatizing events of the past hour and simply become one with the breeze.

And I'm floating, floating, floating.

* * *

 **I absolutely loved exploring Mason's character a little bit more and breaking Nevaeh's heart and basically just being a cruel person, but maybe YOU enjoyed this chapter more than the original first one? Just a little bit? Let me know.**

 **HAPPY READING**


	2. 02

A cabin camouflaged in the trees was my shelter for the first night.

The interior was clean and thankfully void of walkers. I settled there and slept on the cot laid out in the middle of the space, most likely put there by a survivor that hadn't made it. The thought didn't hit me as hard that time. I knew now that survival in a place as cruel as the world was slim. It was only a matter of time before I lost my life, too.

My sleep was riddled with tossing and turning and when I was finally able to shut my eyes for good, my dreams wilted into nightmares. Screams echoed through the cabin when I finally woke up with sweat covered skin. The orange light of the rising sun shined through the single window and on my eyes that felt tired and raw. It took me a while to remember where I was and convince myself that the recent events of the previous night weren't part of a really bad nightmare.

My limbs moved sluggishly as I made my way to the small kitchen. This was the process Mom and Mason used when we were on our own. Check the perimeter, clear the house, search for food, search for other supplies, stay if area is clear, move on to the next place if not. I skim the countertops that are clear then move to the cabinets. The search gives me two small cans of peaches that I shove into my bag. The lonely plastic water bottle that I ran across in my hunt is also stuffed into the netting on the side of the pack in hope that I'd run across a source of good water. After finding nothing else, I retreated back to the front door. I didn't want to stay there. I didn't feel safe.

Just as my fingertips skimmed the doorknob, the entire surface vibrated. A growl sounded from the opposite side as I jumped back.

 _Oh no._

My stomach churned with an emotion I knew all too well: fear. Breaths started leaving my lips in a faster rhythm as my ears zero in on the bangs against the wooden surface. One growl. No chorus. It was only one. At least I _hoped_ it was only one. I couldn't handle more. I didn't even know if I could handle this one.

I unsheathed the sword from it's holster hanging from my shoulder with inexperienced fingers. It felt unnatural in my grip and the fact that I was shaking wasn't helping one bit. I took a minute for deep breaths and the holding back of tears. One even slipped out and I pathetically wiped it away just as yet another growl slipped through the cracks of the outside.

And, for some reason, when I heard it, I got mad.

Blood boiling, glare-inducingly _pissed_.

The grasp on the hilt of the sword was suddenly sure and firm with one hand and the other reached out to wrench open the door. Feet took confident steps back on the wooden floors as the purely disgusting creature stumbled into the house.

Hair that I'm sure used to be blonde hung in stringy clumps from a grey skull. A dress, black and adorned with pink roses hung off of the used-to-be-a-her body, torn and revealing a stomach sliced open to display intestines dragging in bloody trails against the ground. Milky and lifeless eyes surrounded by sickly sunken skin stared me down with a hunger that had the remaining fear left in me turning to distaste.

I wanted to throw up.

But I swallowed it down as the bony figure progressed towards the only source of lively skin. I scowled when it bared its ugly teeth. These things killed my Mom and brother. They didn't deserve my fear.

I took another step back when a discolored arm reached for me. Hot and angry streams of water were falling down my cheeks at this point, but I didn't give them a second thought. I was too focused on what it did to my life.

"You killed my family you ugly hag." The shaking in my voice echoes along the walls and the walker only groans louder and increases speed.

I wait with mild surprise at my courage, the blade raised behind me like a baseball bat. "I won't let you kill me too." The thing is stupid enough to parade closer to me, snapping its jaw in excitement at the sight of breakfast, but it doesn't get to finish the last cry of desire before the blood crusted silver of my blade slices right through it's head, cutting those odious eyes perfectly in half. A mixture of brain and blood splatters against my face, against my yellow tank top.

This time I do vomit. It's barely anything, considering the low amount of food supply I've been on for the past two months.

I try to avert my eyes from the heap on the floor as I compose myself. The sudden influx of anger fades, leaving me panting off adrenaline and wiping at the wetness of my cheeks along with my mouth. Crying was starting to get old. How did I still have enough fuel for tears in my system? I hadn't drank anything in God knows how long and at the thought I realize just how dry my throat is. Was there a water source nearby? I could vaguely recall Gus ordering men to ' _follow the creek if you get lost. Water's good enough, and our camp is just south of it.'_

The memory makes my heart hurt more than it already does. It feels _sore._ Like it's been slammed against things multiple times to the point where everything hurts so much that if you so much as move you suffer. It was broken, that much I knew, that much I _felt_. But, where were the stitches? How in the world did I get it to just _stop_?

I sigh - a sound that sounds painful even to my own ears - and walk outside. The clouds look like cotton candy, pink and fluffy and positively delicious in the light of the rising sun and the sight of them both lightens my mood and pulls me further down my personal pit of misery; A tug of war involving my entire body.

I sniff and swat the tears that refuse to leave me alone away. I try to keep my steps silent against the dying leaves so I can keep a listen for running water. Or a growl from a walker. I hope I never have to hear the latter again. I don't know if my anger will keep me in check next time.

Relief floods my veins when I hear the gentle rush of the creek. I do my best to keep my hurried steps quiet as I snatch the water bottle out of my bag and trudge to the source of water.

It's beautiful, my first thought when I step out and see it from behind the shielding of trees. The reflection of the multicolored sky against the decently clear surface has my artistic side internally gushing at the sight. Then of course the newly developed side of myself has to come back swinging with the thought that it shouldn't be here. Nothing this pretty deserves to be in this world. Not anymore.

I gather my bottle of water nonetheless and continue my trek, staying close to the edge and glancing every few minutes at the rushing body of beauty to remind myself that maybe I will make it through...whatever this is.

Just maybe.

* * *

Over the past four days I've learned two things:

Toilet paper is a resource not to be taken for granted.

And peaches taste really, _really_ good.

I've lived off of them for the time that I've been on my own because people apparently liked keeping the canned fruits handy in cabinets. It was a trick to figure out how to open them at first, but then I remembered that I carried a sharp sword so it got easier after that.

Walkers - thank God - for the most part have stayed absent in my planless traveling. I've killed only five and have managed not to puke out my stomach's contents the previous two takedowns.

Crying, it seems, doesn't like taking pity on people. Grief comes in random waves, hitting me so hard that I have to sit down and clutch at Mason's jacket so violently my knuckles turn white. I've managed to construct a wall of concrete that helps me not feel _anything_ , but concrete has cracks and I've discovered that those cracks are _very_ penetrable.

For Christ's sake, I'm only thirteen. Why is this happening to me? What did I do?

I follow the creek during the day, find shelter at night, then repeat the next day. The loneliness and fear I'm feeling is whittling away my sanity and it's only a matter of time before I give up, I know it. I thought I could do this and Mason's words constantly bombarding my brain help my feet keep moving, but there is only so much determination I can manage before reality slaps me upside the head with the truth that survivors are a rare breed. I'm one of them now and every time a walker comes out from the delicate merging of trees with it's mouth unhinging for my flesh a little piece of my pathetic amount of courage breaks away.

My shirt is red with dried blood and dusted with dirt. If I run my fingers over my face I can feel the bumps of walker insides against it and every time I do so I want to throw up. It's getting colder every day and my shorts are beginning to be too little to shield my legs from the cool breezes that get through to me. Mason's jacket is my only refuge, providing me with both warmth and amenity when it's so desperately needed.

I'm especially grateful for the fact that my mother's side of the family has weird skin. We don't burn in the sun, we automatically tan. I knew it was handy before the world flushed itself down the toilet, but now, with the cloudless blue skies and the powerful ball of light the trait is pure gold. Mason wasn't lucky enough to get the gene and ended up whining a lot when it was just the three of us on the road.

My small smile at the memory fades the second one of those reality punches hits me hard. I'm alone. Both of them are gone. Right.

I take a gigantic gulp of water to distract me from the sorrow pouring heavily into my system and crouch down next to the water to get a refill when a small noise greets my ears. I freeze for a millisecond but whip around quickly to scan the greenery around me for movement.

Nothing. No decaying bodies or crunching of leaves.

I dismiss it, filling up my bottle fully and screwing the cap on tight. I slide it into the net on the side of my bag and take one step when I hear it again. That noise. I go still, expecting it to happen again so hopefully this time I can place it.

It does.

The first thing I know for sure is that it is not a growl. I know by now exactly what that sounds like and the fact that I'm pretty sure that this isn't a walker has my rigid posture deflating a bit. I don't move until it reaches me once more and when I still can't place it, my feet begin to travel in that direction without my consent. I'm too focused on scouring the landscape for threats to care about the leaves and branches hitting my face.

I stop in my tracks when I hear the noise again, louder and closer to me. This time, I recognize it.

It's a neigh. As in a living, breathing, _horse_.

 _Oh Lord please don't let there be walker horses._

My steps are quicker as I maneuver my way through tree trunks and to the source. If I'm right and this horse is not a flesh eating animal, then it's only a matter of time before the undead find it and rip it limb from limb. This innocent thing does not deserve that. Not one bit.

I'm panting both from slight panic and exertion when I reach a small clearing. Rays of light slip through the canopy above to shine on the brown coat of an animal like a small blanket of diamonds. Dark eyes glitter as they look at me and once again I'm witnessing something way too beautiful to exist. A single white stripe runs down the horse's nose and for the minute I observe it and it observes me I'm awestruck.

I think back to the riding lesson I had...two years ago? I remember snippets of it and attempt to pick at my brain for more.

 _Show the horse that you pose no threat._ That might be hard considering the gun hanging from my thigh and the sword on my back, but I hold my hands out in front of me anyway. "Hey," I mutter, trying to be quiet and project my voice at the same time. It wouldn't be good if walkers found us. "What are you doing out here?" It's more a question for myself than the horse seeing as it can't respond. A saddle sits on it's back, a clear indication that it has a home _somewhere_. Is it's owner still alive?

I take a step forward and cringe at the large crunch of leaves I create. The horse keeps it's creepily magnificent eyes on me, but doesn't start or run away. I congratulate myself on that and take two more steps, close enough now that I can see the vague reflection of myself in the black orbs. It still doesn't move. I take this as a show of trust and move a hesitant hand forward. The second my fingertips touch the light color of it's nose, it nuzzles my entire palm. I can't help the smile that blooms on my face as it does so. I bring my other hand up to the top of it's head and pet it gently, feeling accomplished at the pleased neigh it releases.

"You know, I could use some company. You wanna join me?" I don't expect it to answer really, but to my utter surprise, it nods it's head.

I gasp at the action. "I knew there was a reason walkers haven't gotten to you yet. You're smart."

The neigh it lets out is small and sounds as if it's trying to say, ' _Yes, I know.'_

Hmm. Cocky horse.

I run my hand down the stripe one more time before telling it, "We need to get back to the creek, walk a little more. A least I'll have company this time, right?"

I turn and hope it'll follow me but before I even start my journey, I hear it's hoof slam against the ground, scattering leaves and digging down into the dirt. The neigh it releases is loud and I flinch at the volume of it, my head completing a quick search of the trees. I round on the horse, shooting out my arms again. "Woah! What is it?"

It's movements stop immediately and it huffs with a tilt of it's head backwards. I don't understand. My eyebrows pinch together and I question, "What?"

Another huff blows through its nostrils as if it's saying, ' _Oh my God you idiot.'_

It tilts its head backwards again with more force and I squint at it for a few seconds after it does so, trying to piece together what in the world it's trying to say when it finally clicks in my mind. "You want me to get on your back?" I ask uncertainly.

It gives me an exaggerated nod and makes a noise that communicates, ' _Yes you loser.'_

I cross my arms and reply, "No need to be rude about it." Another sound that shows it doesn't care meets my ears and I'm stuck between loving and hating this horse. I glance at the side, seeing the stirrup hanging against it's coat. "Okay, I'll try, but please don't kill me." If it will get it to not make as much noise as it just did, then I'll do whatever it wants.

It nods. Yeah, maybe I do love this horse.

I lay my converse clad foot on the pad of the stirrup and take a deep breath. Horses are taller than they look in pictures. I remember thinking the same thing when my parents took me to the stables and they ended up having to lift me onto the horse because I couldn't swing myself on. Now I have no help and I'm still helplessly short. I don't let that stop me though, boosting myself up and attempting to swing my leg over the saddle. I fail miserably, letting out a disappointed sigh when I bring my feet back to the ground.

"Stay right here." I tell the horse. "I'm gonna go look for a log or _something_ to help me get up there."

It doesn't take me that long to find a piece of wood and when I use it in the mounting equation, I finally sit myself on the leather of the saddle. I lost count of the tries it took, but I got on and that's what matters. "Sorry for taking so long," I apologize, trying not to be spooked by how far I am from the ground and how much it could hurt if I fell. "You're kind of tall and I'm really short so...I'm sorry."

The sound it replies with shows it really doesn't care and the smile returns to my lips. I grip at the material I can in front of me so I won't fall to my death. "Okay." I breath out to myself to calm my nerves and increase the volume of my voice to the horse. "Ready to go?"

I would've screamed if the air wasn't taken out of my lungs. The horse starts forward before the last word fully leaves my lips, going so fast the green blurs together. My eyes blow wide as I try in vain to take in everything. Hair blows out all around me, dirty wisps in the wind. The bouncing from the rough gallops lets me know that I'll be sore for sure tomorrow if I survive this.

I can _feel_ my internal organs shifting and it's both disgusting and exhilarating. Alarm and joy flood my blood already full of adrenaline and I have the urge to smile and shriek my head off. I don't do either, instead clenching my eyes shut and trying to pretend that there is not a ginormous probability that I could die right now.

 _Please don't kill me._

My hope of this horse having telepathy is crushed when it only seems to increase its speed. I take the risk of opening one eye to see where the heck we are. The sight of blurred trees no longer greets me and I realize that we've exited the forest and are currently streaking across a field of tall grasses. The sun starts to harshly shine against my eyes without the coverage of leaves and at the glare I shut them again and continue to hold on for dear life.

When we start to slow down I blurt out, "Oh thank God!", without thinking, taking deep, precious gulps of air and taking the opportunity of clearer vision to examine the surroundings better. The only structures anywhere near us are a rickety looking wooden barn we must've already passed and a building that I assume are the horse stables we're heading towards. This must be the home of the horse. A farm completely devoid of walkers. How is that possible?

The moment the horse stops in the stall that must belong to it I hop off, ignoring the unpleasant twinge in my ankles from the height of the jump. I check to make sure all my weapons are still in place before glaring at the animal. "That could've been fun if you'd warned me." That's a lie. I still would've been scared to death even if I'd gotten a clear warning.

I'm almost positive the horse rolls it's eyes. Are they capable of doing that?

"Um, who are you?"

The sound of another voice makes my heart spasm and my body jump. "Holy crap!" I exclaim, holding a hand to my chest and still seeking the air I lost when the horse started racing across the ground. I whip around as fast as I can with my shock.

A boy no older than I am stands not that far away from me. Baby blue eyes sparkle with amusement as they stare at me, the brown bangs advancing above them almost shrouding them from me. A sheriff hat sits on his mop of hair and the small grin playing on his lips makes him look boyish. The starscape of freckles spattered across his cheeks does nothing to help either.

It takes my brain a few seconds to comprehend what my eyes see.

 _A person._

Not a walker that wants to devour everything but my bones, a _human being_.

A human being that is my age. I thought I was the last one left, but no, here stands another kid right in front of me. I'm too stupefied to act brave and aim a weapon at him and it doesn't look like he even has one, so we just stand there, the both of us having an unintentional staring contest.

"You didn't answer my question." He speaks first. I could tell he was trying to sound intimidating, but I already knew he was anything but. The most scary thing about him was the hat and I only wanted to wear the thing.

I blink. "What was the question?" I kind of got scared out of my skin at the sound of his voice. I didn't catch what the sentence held.

The smirk that forms and replaces the boyish grin has another wave of oh-my-gosh-this-is-real hitting me. This boy isn't trying to eat me. He's making conversation and at the realization of how much I've missed two sided talking I know I'll answer anything he asks. I'm desperate, I'm lonely, and I'm hurting beyond belief. Considering the appearance of the boy in front of me, he isn't the only survivor on this property. He has no weapons, which means he either doesn't know how to use any - which would mean death if he was alone, he left them at a camp somewhere because he feels safe enough to do so, or someone else protects him from everything just like Mom and Mason did for me. His face and clothes are clean. But those aren't the things that really tip me off.

It's his eyes.

They're happy and bright. Innocent. Nobody who has lived in this world for this long alone has eyes like that. I'd learned what sadness looked like in my time with my group. Everyone had the same look in their eyes. Like shattered glass. Mason's eyes had that appearance to them when he dragged me into that house and I'd overlooked it, but now I'm paying attention and that pretty shade of blue is unscathed. Whole and untouched. My eyes probably used to look like that. I didn't want to know how broken they appeared now.

I felt bad for him. I didn't know his name and he didn't know mine, but I pitied him. He hadn't been broken yet. And when you break, it's agonizing. Already, just looking at him being totally naive, I wanted to keep him from shattering. Part of me knew there was no way to avoid it but another part of me wasn't at all curious to see what his eyes looked like cracked and damaged.

"Who are you?"

I have to go back in time to remember what we were talking about, too distracted with his wellbeing to pay attention. My name. He wants my name. Right.

I try to keep my voice steady and confident when I reply. "Nevaeh."

He seems pleased that I'm cooperating with him and his infectious smile has my lips twitching. "How'd you get in here?"

I jab my thumb in the direction of the horse I have mixed feelings for. "I found the horse in the woods. When I got on it, it took off and brought me here." My hands find their way into my jacket pockets next, gripping at the material inside of them as I involuntarily tilt my head. "And to be fair, what's your name?" I applaud myself for sounding nonchalant and not like I'm pleading for him to take me in.

"Carl." The name makes me smile.

He scans me after he answers my prod, noticing for what seems like the first time that I'm covered in dirt and blood. I expect disgust to curl his lips, but he surprises me by looking concerned. "Are you...alone?" The emotion he puts into the word makes me want to cry.

I nod.

He blows out a breath and casts his eyes down at the hay covered ground. Confliction is one word to describe his features and I have a feeling he's deciding on whether or not to offer me a spot in whatever group he has here. I wait patiently, chewing on my lip like it's a wad of gum and trying not to let the incredibly annoying tears of anxiety leak out of my eyes.

"Our group lost someone," He finally says. "Her name's Sophia and she's our age. You said you were in the woods. Did you see anyone?" Stress is easily heard in his voice and that's all I need to understand how much she's cared about.

I didn't even know her and I'm still disappointed when I shake my head. "I didn't see anyone."

His face falls. "I'm gonna bring her back one day. She doesn't deserve to be alone."

"No one does." The words slip out of my mouth without my permission. They sound heartbreaking enough to wilt a flower and betray my wall of indifference.

The alluring blue of his eyes lock onto mine, softening the longer we keep contact. I know there isn't any way he can relate to me, but the empathy in the sea of azure has my chest filling with a warmth I haven't had in four days.

"You can join my group." He murmurs, not breaking away from my eyes. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

I want to hug him until he can't breathe even if I just met him and am still getting used to seeing another living human, but a detail nags me in the back of my mind and my rebellious mouth asks it aloud. "Will they let me in just because you want to?" That isn't at all how it went with my group. If you found people, you brought them in and let Gus talk to them. If he approved, you stayed and if he didn't...I never saw what happened if that was the case.

That boyish grin is back. He nods so hard his hat almost falls off. "My Dad's the leader. If I trust you, he will too. He's a good guy."

 _He trusts me._

Did I trust him? If I were to turn my back could I trust that he wouldn't shoot me in the back of my head?

He gently grips my wrist and I flinch at the contact, but he doesn't seem to realize it. "Come on!" He urges, everything about his features indicating excitement. I begin to get dragged out of the stables and into the grasses before I even comprehend what he said.

I could see myself trusting him.

But did I?


	3. 03

Carl doesn't ever stop talking.

He speaks rapidly, spouting out stories with names I'm unfamiliar with. So far all I know is that his parents names are Lori and Rick. The fact that they were still alive didn't faze me one bit. I was already positive they were with the happiness in Carl's strides. I was glad that he still had them, but it didn't stop the piece of information from stabbing me in the heart.

"Wait, wait," I interrupt his rambling in the middle of a story. "You were shot?"

If anything he seems excited when he nods. "The bullet split into six pieces!"

"Inside of your body?" I ask incredulously.

In reply, he reaches for the bottom of his shirt and pulls it up, showcasing an angry patch of stitched skin on his stomach. I can't help but gasp as I look at it. A bullet piercing your abdomen would be enough pain, but for Carl, he had to endure _even more_ than just that. Surgery was bad even before the loss of technology, so going through it without any of that...I don't envy him for it. Not at all.

"It's a cool battle scar, isn't it?"

I snort before I can help it. I'd known the guy for about five minutes and already knew he only lived on the bright side. I'm torn between yelling at him that no one should be this cheerful and sticking to his side because he makes me feel normal again.

I try to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice when I tell him, "Yeah. Cool."

He looked awfully proud of my agreement, pulling his shirt back down with a grin. "I know." I hold back my smile and my eyeroll at his response as his gaze moves away from me and to something in the distance. His eyes - an enthralling shade of grey in the light of the sun - widen a moment later. It's not until he points that I search for the location of his attention.

An RV sits in the middle of a cluster of tall trees, surrounded by multicolored tents and picnic tables. Cars are parked off to the side, one of which is surrounded by three bodies that I can't make out from the distance. I see other figures moving around, not much, but enough to have me curious.

"How many people are in your group?" I wonder aloud.

Carl looks to his hands, counting with the help of his fingers. "Eleven, including me."

"Are there any other kids?"

"Only me and Sophia. And you now, I guess." He sends me an encouraging smile that conveys a thousand words, most of them containing remarks about my loneliness, I'm sure of it. I don't know how someone who can't relate to you _at all_ can help so much in untying the nervous knot in your stomach.

I stare at him and let my eyes run over his features, absentmindedly connecting the dots of his freckles and trying to soak up all the power I can from his gleeful smile. The longer I look at them, the more I realize just how _beautiful_ his eyes are. I've always been slightly obsessed with them, enraptured by the amount of different shades of the same color that can merge to create something that should totally be impossible.

It's kind of magical.

"Thank you." I blurt, the softness in my voice surprising me.

His eyebrows pinch in confusion. "Why are you thanking me?"

"I was alone," I offer an indifferent shrug, but the hands shrouded in my pockets tell a separate story with the way they're clenched. "You didn't have to talk to me or anything, but you did. And even though we just met, you're trusting me enough to introduce me to your group. You're giving me a chance. Thank you."

When I meet his eyes, he beams and the sight of it completely slices through the serious air I expelled, dragging up a chuckle from the happy part of my soul that's been hiding for the past four days. And when I heard the sound of it escaping my lips, I made a decision.

I wanted to be Carl's friend.

He was what I could describe as a breath of fresh air. I'm unsure of the amount of time it's been since the walkers took over, but for the first chunk of it I was just like him. I was intact, a slice of innocent perfection. I still had my family and in my book that meant that the world was just like it was before - only with a few terrifying bumps in the road.

I was new to the _real_ world. The one without the veil of naivety. I'd finally passed through the fog and everything was in clear, heartbreaking color that I couldn't escape from. There was no stepping back now. You could either step forward on your own or be pushed by the threat of death. My wounds were still fresh and burning yet it felt like it'd been years without any improvement. Being alone can do that to you even if it's just for a few days.

Carl was the poster child for innocence and something about the carefree air he threw off and the fact that the smile on his face was constant had me feeling as if all those wounds were finally being stitched up.

Still there, still painful, but healing. At least it was something.

"You see him?" Carl brings me out of my staring contest with his profile with a nudge of my shoulder and another point of his finger. The man he points at is easier to see now that we're growing closer. The tug of dread and fretfulness in my stomach doesn't stop me from taking in the man's appearance. Mason would know whether or not this guy was trustworthy with just a glance, but I'm stuck telling myself that I can do what he can and absolutely failing at it in the end.

With a hand on his hip and his head cocked to the side, intimidation is the first thing I feel when I catch sight of him. Slicked back dark curls are tousled when he runs a hand through them. The corners of his mouth are tugged downwards in a scowl that does nothing to help my image of him nor does the stubble forming along his jaw. His determined stare is fixed on the map spread against the hood of the yellow car as are the two men's on either side of the vehicle. One of them are bald and looks just as - if not more - intimidating than the first guy with his army-esque look and the other man just looks bored, resting his chin against his hand.

"That's my Dad."

I stop in my tracks and turn to look at him. " _That's_ your Dad?"

His nod is vigorous and his expression is proud. "Yep!"

The resemblance is easily seen of course, but thinking about Carl being the offspring of this scary man is just a tad unbelievable.

When Carl realizes that we've stopped moving, his fingers grip my wrist and I'm being dragged across this farm for the second time today. "Dad!" He calls when we get closer to the small camp.

Carl's dad - _Rick_ , if I remember correctly - freezes mid-bite into a fruit I'm still too far away to classify and glances up. I see the double take he makes when he spots the extra human being next to his son. And then his eyes narrow.

I'm sure it's physically impossible for my nerves to be more intense.

The bald man speaks first. "Carl, who the hell is this?"

 _Warm welcome._

Rick places the fruit on the map in front of him and my mouth starts to water when I realize that it's a peach. "Shane-"

"This is Nevaeh." Carl cuts off the obvious beginnings of a yelling match with me as the main target with a thrilled gesture and an animated tone. "I found her in the stables. She brought Nervous Nelly back when she found her in the woods."

Nervous Nelly? Nothing about that horse screamed nervous. Confident, abso-freaking-lutely but that horse was anything but jittery and jumpy.

The bald man - who I'm guessing is Shane - runs a hand over his head, agitation making itself known on his face. "You can't just go bringin' strangers into camp. You know that Carl."

Carl rolls his eyes and seeing the action on his face forces me to hold back a smile. "She was alone. I wasn't going to leave her there. You wouldn't have." He crosses his arms and I'm almost positive I hear a hum of contempt from his throat.

Shane is clearly thinking of a way to reply to Carl without hurting his feelings and his eyes are focused on me - or more importantly - my gun. I'm about to snatch it out of my holster and hand it to him so I can make this nerve-wracking exchange easier when Rick steps around the large man and in front of me. His previously threatening eyes have turned gentle. They're the same distracting blue as Carl's.

"You're alone?" Rick's tone matches the nature of his eyes and I decide to cooperate with him because I already like him better than Shane.

I nod.

"For how long?"

My grip on the inner pockets of my jacket increases. "Four days."

He looks me up and down, stare lingering longer on the gun strapped to my leg. I sigh when I notice it, reaching down and grasping the metal weapon out of its holster. I hold it in front of me, the butt facing him. "You don't kill me, I don't kill you. I don't even know how to use this thing, but if it'll help you trust me, here. I better get it back, though." I try to lace my words with dauntlessness, but the small occasional tremor on the back end of them betrays me.

I catch the amused twitch of Rick's lips when he tenderly takes the gun from my hands and hands it to a shocked and mad looking Shane without losing the contact he'd made with me. I hadn't expected him to act like this. Carl being a part of this group eased me a little bit but I at least thought that a gun would be put to my temple. Instead, I didn't see _any_ guns. Even the holster hanging from Rick's belt was empty.

It wasn't until I moved my stare from Rick that I discovered all movement in the camp had ceased. Nine pairs of eyes were on me, examining and judging wordlessly. My skin crawled with discomfort and I fidgeted uneasily at the feeling. I cast my eyes anywhere but someone's face and ending up looking at the ground. A tiny white flower winked up at me and bent with the stress of a small wind gust. I wanted to pick it and stomp on it at the same time.

A hand on my shoulder has me flinching and snapping my head up. It's Rick. His smile communicates understanding and that's what guarantees me that he is one hundred percent Carl's father. "Follow me."

I thank him inside my head for noticing my uneasiness at all the attention and gladly listen to him. Carl starts along with me and when Rick catches this, he holds up a hand. "No. Stay here." He orders as if he's a dog.

Carl's eyes narrow in a glare that kind of makes him look like a bunny and I bite my lip to keep my smile at bay as he argues, "But I brought her here!"

Rick simply places a hand on his son's shoulder, like he did me. "Go find your Mom, okay? Nevaeh and I are just gonna have a talk." _A talk_. That sounds more scary than it should.

Carl sighs, slouching his shoulders. His bunny glare turns into hopeful big blue eyes. "You're gonna let her stay right?"

My heart warms at his concern for me and the urge to cry hits me like a wave. Tears invade my eyes before I can even comprehend them and I have to blink quickly to shoo them away and recompose myself. I take deep breaths and keep my stare locked on the duo, too afraid to meet the eyes of anyone else.

Rick spares a glance at me before turning back to Carl and uttering a low, "We're gonna have to see about that."

My stomach drops.

Carl frowns. "Okay." He stands there for a few more beats before releasing another sigh and sending his father a sad look, walking away from me and further into the tree and tent infested camp. The loss of his presence brings an unexpected surge of nerves. I hadn't realized how much at ease he'd put me until I was alone with his Dad who seemed like both a teddy bear and a murderer.

Rick doesn't look at all bothered by Carl's anguish, sending me a small smile and continuing his journey to wherever I'm supposed to be following him to. I keep my eyes locked on the top of his head so I won't make contact with any others.

We end up at the beige colored RV, Rick opening the door for me. The inside is dark and for some reason, looking into the space, I felt as if I was walking to my death. I hoped the gulp I took was unheard as my foot met the step.

The first thing Rick does when he enters is pull back the curtains so that the entire room is engulfed in light. I let out a relieved breath when I'm submerged in sun and take a look around. Plates sit on the counter by the sink, one stack clean and sparkly and the other with what looks like grease on them. Are these people eating things that involve _grease_? I haven't had greasy food in forever. _God_ I miss french fries.

He sits at the booth in front of me and gestures to the opposite side for me to sit. Right under the, _How about a nice cup of shut the hell up?_ sign. That calms me significantly as I shed my backpack and my wakizashi - which I put right in the middle of the table so I can seem trustworthy and not like I'm trying to slice off his head.

The silence feels awfully awkward. Rick's icy eyes are on my sword, tracing the grey leather stitching on the hilt. When he finally looks at me head on I have to force the lump of fear and nervousness down my throat. "I'm Rick Grimes," He starts, his southern twang making an even greater appearance in the pronunciation of his name.

Even though he already knows my name, I assume we're doing introductions so I reply, "Nevaeh Summers."

"You were in a group...before." Cut right to the important stuff.

My hands trade their grip on my jacket pockets for the cushion of the booth, wrapping around it mercilessly. "There were about twenty people until…" Images of people getting devoured flash across my mind and I will them to go away. "We were overrun four days ago."

Rick's quiet for a moment before he asks softly, "Your family?"

I look down at my dark colored shorts. This would be a lot easier without eye contact. "My Dad died about two months before all of this, my Mom and brother when our camp was attacked by walkers." It feels like my heart is being cut apart by a sharp knife when I say the words.

I hear Rick's intake of breath. The sound of it makes me feel pitiful. Thirteen, no family. Completely alone and desperate for some form of company. Not to mention the fact that I haven't exactly bathed in the past four days. That mixed with the blood and sweat I've collected must make me look - and smell - disgustingly unapproachable.

There's a long pause and my leg jumps under the table as I wait for Rick's next question or the look of pity I constantly got after my father's death. Pity makes me feel like a small, squashed ant. I'm absolutely helpless because my insides are suddenly outside and I can't move, so all I can do is sit there and just...die.

Rick doesn't do the latter, instead reaching and running his fingers gently over the hilt of the sword as if he's scared that he'll hurt it, finally breaking the silence with, "You used this to protect yourself?"

I nod slowly, murmuring, "My brother taught me."

Rick frowns and looks back at me with empathetic eyes. That's where Carl gets it from. No doubt. The tenseness in my form lessens at the sight. He doesn't understand. He can't. I don't see shattered irises. He's the first adult I've met without them.

But that doesn't stop the sudden respect I have for the man.

He looks like he's about to say something when the door of the RV swings open and Shane comes bounding inside, nose crinkled with the force of his scowl and dark eyes focused on me, lit with a fire that has my slacked grip on the seat tightening.

"The hell you doing Rick? Bringing a little girl into our camp?"

That lights up the defenses I didn't even know I had and I'm standing before I know it. "I am _not_ a _little girl_! I've killed walkers, I've watched people scream for help because they're being devoured by them and not been able to do anything because if I didn't move I would join them! Yeah, I'm short and I'm young, but guess what? Now, that doesn't mean anything! I can handle myself well enough and know that not everything is a freaking fairy tale anymore, alright?" I poke a finger into his chest. "I'm not a little kid anymore and you can't call me that when you don't even know me! So shut up, okay? Carl brought me here because he saw these things even though I can tell he hasn't even killed a walker yet. You might want to take a page from his book, _Shane_." My breathing is ragged after I finish and I attempt to hide the surprise that encompasses me after I realize what I've done. Shane looks flabbergasted and fuming all in one facial expression and I turn my head over to see Rick staring at me with both astonishment and reverence.

I take a step back from the burly man that I just unleashed all my rage from the past four days on, my cheeks burning even though I'm extremely satisfied at getting my point across. I just stand there, twiddling my thumbs behind my back as I wait for their reactions.

Shane definitely has a temper and I probably just started a hate war between the both of us, which would be fine with me seeing as I'd started holding a grudge on him the second he opened his mouth. Rick on the other hand, is unreadable to me, having the teddy bear/murderer appearance. He soothes my jittering and kind of scares me at the same time.

"Rick," Shane says, clearly set on kicking me out of here. Or killing me. Either way, I'm ready to grab my sword and run even though the door is being blocked. I could always jump out the window, right?

"I think she's proved herself just fine, Shane." Rick interjects.  
"Really?" I ask with an uncontrollable smile at the same time Shane yells, "What?"

"She can protect herself. And if she needs to, she'll help out around the camp." That's a demand. _I let you stay here, you help out._ I nod so frantically I'm afraid my neck's gonna snap. "Carl needs someone his age around here with Sophia missin'. He needs a friend."

Shane softens at the mention of the young boy, the spark of anger in his eyes depleting until it's almost nonexistent. He glances from me to Rick. "Fine," He grumbles. "She can stay. You might wanna run it by the others. I'm sure they don't want a stranger in our camp either." The door shuts with a loud bang as he leaves, vibrating from the force of it.

I think I just made an enemy.

Oops.

"The owner of this farm doesn't want guns on his property," Rick brings my attention to him. He holds up my gun. "I'm gonna have to keep this, but it'll be right here." He reaches under the table and points at a police bag that I hadn't noticed. The barrels of other guns poke through the half done zipper and instead of it intimidating me, I feel an odd sense of comfort knowing that they can protect themselves. That what happened to my camp might not happen here too.

I nod back at him. As long as the gun is still accessible when I need it and I know it's safe, he can do whatever he wants with it.

I swing my bag back onto my back, already feeling more at ease with the weight of it. I reach for my sword, but stop halfway. "Am I allowed to keep my sword?" I ask. I'll feel uncomfortable if I don't have it. I've grown accustomed to the relief it provides my scared mind.

"Of course."

It's slung over my shoulder right after the words leave his lips. "So…" I start awkwardly, my hands wrestling with each other because of my nerves. "I can stay?"

Rick sends me a smile. His blue eyes crinkle. "I don't see why not. But you will need to tell me how you got here. It'll help us find a person from our group that went missin'."

 _Sophia._

"No problem. Thank you, Rick." I pour emotion into my voice so he can capture how truly serious I am. "I know this is a big deal with rations and everything, so I'll go on runs if you need me to or do anything else-"

He waves me off. "Just...hang out with Carl, alright?"

I can tell how much he cares about his son by the genuine concern on his face and nod in return to his request. "Well," I sling my backpack onto one shoulder so I can unzip it and pull out the two cans of peaches I scavenged. "At least take these. Think of it as...an entrance fee or something."

I'm about to leave when I remember that no one out here except for Carl and Shane - who probably doesn't like me too much - are the only people of this group that know me. "Um, Rick? Nobody's gonna like, kill me or anything when I go out there, right?"

Rick chuckles lightly. "I'll go with you, introduce you to everyone."

"Thanks." I say for what feels like the millionth time today.

I let him go first because, frankly, fear and excitement are not two things that mix together well and I can't stop fidgeting in my spot. It's not like they'll be waiting out there with pitchforks and torches and the second I leave this RV they'll charge. Even though that sounds like a kind of cool picture to draw, I'd rather not have to sketch it from experience.

And I would very much not like to die.

I can't help but notice how confident Rick's steps are. If only I could say the same about mine. I stumble on my way down the stairs and almost face plant into the ground. Thank God for railings. That would not have been a great introduction to the rest of the group. I clutch onto the piece of metal with white knuckles on the rest of the small journey down.

The alleviation of my stress when my feet hit the dirt is interrupted when a voice asks, "How'd it go?"

I shriek. Carl stands to my right with curious eyes and a wide smile. I take a second to recover from the spike in my heart rate before I try to remember what he said to me. I don't succeed.

"What?"

"With my Dad. Are you staying?"

"Oh. Yeah, I am."

His excited smile grows as he adjusts his hat. "Cool."

"Nevaeh."

I turn to see Rick, who jerks his head in a motion for me to follow. I nod to him and tell Carl, "He's introducing me to everyone.", failing in keeping the excitement out of my voice.

"Hey!" Carl calls out to me when I've begun to walk away. "Talk to you later?"

He has no idea how good it feels to hear that word. _Later_. A promise that he'll still be there. Alive.

"Yeah." I've already turned and caught up to Rick when I mumble, "Later."


	4. 04

I meet Lori first.

She's washing a pale blue shirt in a metal bucket of water when Rick leads me to her. Coolers are scattered around the trunks of trees, most likely filled with water that doesn't consist of the dirty muck that I've been consuming for the past four days. I'll have to look in one of them later. I'm too scared to ask about it at the moment.

Lines cross over my head, tied to trees and sinking under the weight of damp shirts. My old group didn't wash clothes. When our outfits got too dirty, they would be sent out on runs to get new clothes and when they came back, we'd trash the old ones and repeat the process with the new ones. Now, seeing the other method in front of my eyes, I understand how stupid that was.

Rick doesn't even have to say anything to draw Lori's attention to me.

The shirt in her hands is discarded for a dry towel before she turns to me with a soft smile. "Hi!" She says brightly, squatting so that I have to look down at her for once. "Carl told me about you. I'm Lori."

Although I'm sure Carl already told her my name, I say it anyway. "Nevaeh."

Her eyes scan me and her smile turns wistful - just for a second - before it's gone. I don't question her about it, deciding it would be best if I don't delve into people's business. "You must be hungry. When's the last time you ate somethin'?"

"Uh, last night?" At the realization, my stomach grumbles. I had those two cans of peaches in my bag, but I'd woken up and started on my path this morning. I didn't give myself time to have breakfast.

Lori must've heard the sound emitted by my stomach because her expression turns amused. She tenderly takes my hand and this time I don't flinch at another person's touch. It makes me feel warm; cared for. "Let's get you some food. Rick?"

They exchange a few whispered words that I can't hear even though I'm practically right beside Lori. She eventually nods and the man sends me a look that clearly states, ' _Behave_ '.

I surprise myself by sending him a grin.

Lori takes me to a small fire pit, the interior still alight with burning embers. A picture of the campfire before the herd tore my group apart flashes across my eyes and I will it to go away with a heavy heart. Concrete wall, I remind myself. Concrete wall.

She reaches into a brown paper bag lodged between twin grey stones and pulls out two thin strips of meat. Jerky. My selfless side bubbles up to the surface before I can stop it. "I don't need any-"

"Take it, sweetheart."

How she made the term sound so threatening, I don't know. I take the jerky from her hands. It feels like it's been forever since I had any kind of meat and I devour each one hungrily.

Lori looks smug. "Good. Now, let's see if we can get you cleaned up, alright?" I'm unused to this kind of treatment. Even before everything went downhill with my group, I wasn't this cared for. I may have been the only kid, but that didn't matter all that much.

I start to nod my head, but freeze. "Um, I don't have any other clothes."

Lori pauses, purses her lips. "That's fine. I'm sure Beth wouldn't mind givin' you some. She'd be the closest to your size."

"Beth?"

"Hershel's daughter." I'm about to ask who Hershel is when she continues, "He's the owner of the property."

Oh. The one who doesn't like guns.

"He'd be fine with me just asking his daughter for clothes?" He seems kind of scary to me despite the fact that I've never seen him.

Lori smiles, her hazel eyes sparkling in the minimal light peaking through the leaves above us. "Yes. I'm sure he would."

"Okay." I say slowly, hesitantly. I look down at myself. Dark red flecks compromise the yellow material of my shirt. Dirt runs over them, camouflaging the dots under a dusty brown. My shorts are a dark denim, but you can still make out the small amount of blood splattered on them. The streak of dried blood from the decapitated walker head four days ago is still visible on the side of my calf. A disgusting reminder of what happened that night. "And you're gonna...wash these clothes?"

I don't want to give up Mason's jacket, not quite yet. Not for a prolonged amount of time. It's the glue that's keeping my fragile pieces connected, the only way I'm able to smile and joke around right now. I'd rather not discover what would happen if it was taken away from me.

Lori's eyebrows crease in confusion, but the lift of her lips show entertainment. "Yes, honey."

"Okay. Yeah." I gulp. The bubble of panic in my stomach doesn't go away. "Where would Beth be?"

She wraps an arm around my shoulders, guides me forward. "I'll take you to her."

On the walk to wherever she's taking me, I lean into her touch little by little. It's motherly and already I miss the feeling of being in my mom's arms so badly. If for just this moment I can pretend she's still alive, then I'll take it with greedy hands.

"So, where'd you live before all of this, Nevaeh?" I notice how foreign my name sounds on her tongue.

"I was born in King County, but we moved to Washington D.C. when I was just a baby. We didn't move back until I was seven."

"King County?"

"Mhmm."

"That's where we lived. Rick, Carl and me. Rick was the sheriff there. You ever see him?" The way she talked to me made me feel like a kid, but I guess to her eyes, that's what I was. It didn't make me angry like Shane's words did. Maybe it was because she reminded me so much of my mom and with her, being a kid was always fun. Princess dresses and Disney movie marathons surrounded my childhood.

I'm brought out of my flashback with teary eyes, trying to catch what she'd said. I'd definitely never seen Carl before. I know I would've noticed him. He had one of those faces that would be fun to draw. With the cutely curved nose and the freckles and the _eyes_ , my fingers are already wanting to reach for my pencil. Rick, however, did seem slightly familiar now that I thought about it. Like I'd seen him in a picture or something.

 _Picture._

 _Sheriff._

The black and white page of a newspaper comes to mind. "He...he was in the newspaper. Wasn't he?"

"Yeah." Lori sighs, forlorn. "He was shot on the job, put into a coma. And when things started to go bad, we had to leave him. We were headed for Atlanta-"

"But they bombed it." I finish for her, remembering the explosions against the skyscrapers, the sound of the planes. I was confused as to why she was me telling her story. Perhaps it was a way of building my trust.

"My dad died two months before the walkers came," I start as a white farmhouse comes into view, tall windows covered with clean curtains. A balcony is visible to my eye and I absentmindedly wonder what the view would be like. A metal windmill sits next to the structure, the metallic blades reflecting the bright sun. I would've thought it was peaceful if I knew the sword on my back wasn't for flesh eating monsters that could attack at any moment. "We had just buried him when things started going crazy. My mom and brother wouldn't tell me anything. They just shoved me into the car and told me to listen to music. We were almost to Atlanta when we got caught in a traffic jam and they tried to hide what was going on from me, but I saw the explosions, heard the screams." I feel Lori's arm tighten around me. "We traveled together after that until we found a group. They took us in and everything was fine until...it wasn't. And then I was alone."

Lori stops suddenly, pulling her arm from my shoulders and once again kneeling in front of me. "Sweetheart, look at me." I'm not aware that tears had fallen from my eyes until I feel the pads of Lori's thumbs flicking them away. I look into her eyes that have now switched from hazel to a green that reminds me of needles on pine trees. Her lips are drawn thin and the seriousness of her expression scares me. "You see me? I'm here. So are all of those people back at that camp. We don't let each other end up alone, we're a team, we're a _family_. You're a part of that now, you got that? From the second Carl found you, you were a part of what we have here. I could never understand what you went through, but I can help you through it. All of us can. We're your family now. Okay?"

My eyes are wide in the seconds of silence following her words. Every member of the Grimes family had managed to help me in some way. Carl brought me here in the first place, to people, to a new home. Rick let me stay here, and Lori was right in front of me willing to be my shoulder that I desperately needed to lean on. All in one day, this family had changed my life.

A sad smile overtakes my lips and I sniffled, nodding. "Okay."

Lori smiles delicately and tucks a strand of dirt-covered hair behind my ear. She returns to her normal height after and extends a hand. "Back to the search for clothes?"

I take it, inwardly cringing at the contrast between her pale skin and my sun-kissed grimy hand. But on the outside, I'm grinning. "Back to the search for clothes."

The worn floorboards of the porch creak under our weight, a reminder of how old this house is. The white paint on the wooden railings and the siding is peeling, leaving light brown patches hidden amongst the sea of yellowed color.

A screen door is the only thing keeping me from entering the household. I can see the antique furniture from the outside. Lori knocks her fist against it, rattling the plastic frame.

A girl appears in my view quickly, blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a single braid weaving through the side of her head. Bright blue eyes welcome me without words. She smiles kindly as she comes up to the barrier between us. "Lori, hey!" She greets, her voice even more southern than Rick's. Her gaze is kind, but turns confused when it strays to me.

"This is Nevaeh," Lori quickly explains. "We were hopin' you'd have some clothes that would fit her."

I doubt that. She's taller than me, almost as tall as Lori.

But she surprises me by nodding. "Yeah, of course. I have tons of clothes that I grew out of years ago. I kept on reminding Daddy to take them with him when he went out, but he never got around to it." She sounds so nice and innocent - just like Carl - but even though her eyes are kind, they're shattered. She'd lost someone.

"Perfect."

"They're right up in my room. Come on in." She opens the door for us and as I step in the space, I'm assaulted by the smell of perfume and something else. Something...old. It's a nice change from the scent of rotting corpses that usually fills the air. It actually makes me feel almost normal again.

Lori stops me in the entryway. "I'm gonna go back to the camp. You come find me after you're done here, alright?"

I don't want to be left alone with a person I barely know, but then I realize that Rick did the same thing to me with Lori and it turned out just fine. I force a smile onto my face that hopefully appears uncaring even though my eyes are red-rimmed from the session I just pulled outside and I probably look like a porcelain doll that will fall apart at any moment. "I will."

She thanks Beth before leaving the house. I watch her figure move through the deserted fields before Beth taps my arm and motions me through the doorway to a separate room. The furniture is floral and old; the type of stuff that my mom loved to get from those antique shops. I liked the bright colored things. Like neons and pastels, but she favored the faded and the aged. I still went with her when she went on a trip to one of them. I found the vintage perfume bottles with the things - I think they were called atomizers - fun to mess with.

Picture frames made of distressed wood sit on a table to my right. I want to look at them, but I'm afraid Beth will send me a judgmental look and kick me out if I do, so I keep quiet and follow her up the stairs.

Her room is painted a light yellow. It's comforting, especially in the small light slipping through the white lacy curtains covering the window. A bed is pushed into the corner next to a short nightstand, overlaid with a colorful quilt. A white dresser with flaking paint sits between two doorways that I assume are a closet and bathroom. The frames that sit on top of it are the same as the ones downstairs, except they're decorated with lively stickers.

I decide to look at them this time.

One of them is of Beth - clearly slightly younger - in a short blue dress, blonde hair curled and a yellow flower peeking up out of the strands. She's sitting on the brick steps that I just walked up outside next to another girl. Her brown hair is held back from her face with a forest green headband that matches her dress. The color brings out her light green eyes. They're both laughing, their heads thrown back and looking completely oblivious to the camera savoring the moment.

I haven't seen anybody that happy in a long time.

Little suns that are beginning to lose their stick and peel up adorn the perimeter of the cheerful photo. I smooth every single one of them down.

"That's Maggie," Beth says, making me jump. I'd forgotten she was there. She doesn't seem to mind my snooping. Nostalgia overtakes her features and her amiable eyes have turned sad, appearing even more damaged than they had when I'd first seen her. "My sister."

It emotionally pains me to think about asking if Maggie is still alive, so I gently put the frame back down and move on to the next one.

The stickers are hearts on this one, ranging in all sizes. A boy sits in a rocking chair on what looks like the porch of the farmhouse, smile wide. A cowboy hat is perched on his head, being tilted up slightly by Beth, who's placing a kiss on his cheek. Even she looks like she's trying to keep a smile at bay.

My heart melts. My parents were always like that. All smiley and in love all the time. I thought it was kind of gross until I turned ten and realized instead of a prince and a castle I only wanted what they had. I've been searching for it ever since. I doubt I'll find it now, me being young and in a world where human beings are kind of rare. I'll probably die before I know what that kind of love feels like.

My relief is large when I recognize the boy in the picture as the one I saw beside the car earlier. "Boyfriend, obviously." I mumble in what I hope to be a teasing way.

I'm glad to hear the smile in her voice when she replies, "Yeah, Jimmy." I return it to it's spot. "Here, let me see your shirt tag." She pulls away my jacket and goes for the neckline of my shirt. I didn't realize how sweaty I was until I felt the cool air hit my skin from the loss of material. I don't want to even know what my hair looks like.

She checks my shorts too before venturing to her closet to search through her old clothes. While she does I continue my journey through her pictures.

The next one must have also been covered in heart stickers, but most of them are torn completely off, leaving little white pieces of adhesive behind. The other ones are left half ripped as if she was trying to make them look like broken hearts.

It's a wedding picture. Maggie is recognizable despite looking exceptionally younger, standing next to a couple sharing a kiss under an arbor wrapped in lavender flowers. The woman's dress is beautiful, poofing out from her waist in a display of lace and ruffles. She holds a bouquet of the same purple plants from the structure behind her. The people on either side of them wear multicolored clothing and have smaller bunches of flowers clutched in their hands, the colors varying. The farmhouse is barely visible in the distance.

The only thing marring the lovely photo is the large crack spreading diagonally against the happy face of the bride. I run my finger over it. This has to be her parents. I think back to what Lori said.

 _Hershel's daughter._

There was no mention of a mother. That must have been who she'd lost. It made sense. I would get mad too if I saw my parent's wedding picture. It was a symbol of how happy my life used to be and now I'm standing in the rubble of what's left. I'd do more than leave a crack.

I practically throw the frame down when Beth leaves her closet with a stack of clothes. She sends me a small, polite smile and I force myself to send one back. How is she so happy and nice when she doesn't have her mother anymore? I'm hardly hanging on right now.

I take the blue and white striped tank top and pair of capris from her arms. "I'll show you the shower."

My jaw drops. "You have showers?!"


	5. 05

I never thought I'd love the smell of coconuts so much.

My fingers keep running themselves through my damp hair, bringing it up to my nose and inhaling deeply. _God_ , it's been so long since I've showered. I've had to wash myself using water from a bucket, but showers have been foreign since the clocks stopped working and people turned into cannibals.

Beth had looked surprised when I'd come out of the bathroom, thus proving my theory on how dirty I actually was. I'd tenaciously avoided the mirror, not yet ready to see what this world had done to me, so her reaction was the only clue I had to how disgusting I had been.

I left quickly afterwards, filthy clothes in hand, and made the long trek back to the camp in search for Lori. Beth scared me. It wasn't _her_ exactly, but what she'd gone through. I could relate to her and I knew that if I stayed there and talked to her more, my sloppily constructed wall would crumble and I would fall apart right there. That's what a thirteen year old girl would do. But I no longer _felt_ thirteen. There was no way I was only thirteen.

I'd barely passed the first tree when my path was blocked. An Asian man stood in front of me, black hair almost completely concealed by a navy blue and white baseball cap. His dark eyes darted around frantically, looking at everything but me. "Hi." He greets. His voice is shy, nervous.

I tilt my head, biting my lip to keep back a smile. The basket in his hands is being shaken by how much he's moving his fingers against the handles. He shuffles his weight from leg to leg as he waits for my response. "Hi." I reply simply.

"I'm Glenn." His smile is timid. The basket is held out to me. "Peach?"

I reach out immediately after the word _peach_ leaves his mouth and grab one. "Thank you. I'm Nevaeh, but I'm pretty sure you knew that already."

"Yeah. Rick and Lori filled us in. And Carl's been telling everyone he sees about you so...yeah. I knew."

"Do you have a problem with it? Me being here?" After Shane, I knew not everyone was as ecstatic about my arrival as Carl was.

He's quick to shake his head, eyes suddenly wide. "No! The more people we have, the easier it is to survive." He takes a few breaths, casts his eyes down. "I just...don't like losing people."

I ignore the tug in my gut at his words. "I get it." I find myself saying. "But I'm _very_ set on not dying, so don't worry about me. I can handle myself." I hope the lack of confidence I feel inside doesn't reflect itself in my words.

Glenn looks impressed, his gaze moving to the sword swung over my shoulder. A small smirk worms its way onto his lips. "I don't doubt that."

I think he's the first person who hasn't seen me and automatically thought, _Little girl! She doesn't understand this world, she can't protect herself!_ , and that - along with his amusing nerves - makes me decide that I like him.

"Um, have you seen Lori?" I scan the camp for her, spotting faces I don't know the names of. I'm struck with a sudden feeling of anxiety. All of these people, all of these opinions of me, all of these bodies primed for the walkers.

Blood. So much blood.

Glenn distracts me from the heaviness of my breaths, resuming his jittering. He's not meeting my eyes, but his are blown wide. "Why-Why do you need to know where Lori is?"

"Because she told me to come find her."

"Oh." He shakes his head and whispers something to himself that obviously wasn't very nice. "Right. Yeah, of course."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." Glenn blurts quickly. "I'm fine. I, uh, think I saw her by one of the tables in front of the RV."

"Okay." I respond hesitantly, eyeing the dirtied converse on his feet digging harshly into the dead leaves and dirt under us. "Thank you, Glenn."

"Anytime." He responds weakly.

It's easy to find the RV seeing as it's huge. Rick, Shane and Lori are all gathered in front of one of the benches along with an old-looking man in a beige fishing hat and one of those button up decorated shirts that my fifth grade teacher used to wear everyday. Carl sits to the left of them, hunched down so low that I wouldn't have been able to see him without his hat.

I make my way over to him quietly. The conversation they're having seems important and the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself by interrupting it. I slide in next to Carl and he starts, whipping his head up to me so fast I'm surprised his hat doesn't fall off. I notice how his eyes slide down the trail of my damp hair before they meet mine. I still can't get over how blue they are.

I'm about to ask what the adults are talking about when Shane's voice carries over to us, "He wants to learn how to shoot. He asked me to teach him. Now, it's none of my business but I'm happy to do it. It's your call."

I barely hear Lori breath out, "I'm not comfortable with it."

Carl and I are still having an unintentional staring contest as I listen into what they're saying. I narrow my eyes slightly at Lori's words, whispering to him, "How are you supposed to protect yourself?"

That glare that reminds me so much of a bunny returns. "Pocket knife." He grumbles.

 _A pocket knife? Seriously?!_

They can not expect him to survive with just that. What if he's alone in the middle a herd? Is he just supposed to survive with a wimpy knife?

I'm the first to break from our stare, instead finding distraction in the leaves of the trees. I cross my arms and lean back against the splintering wood of the table. "Well, that's stupid."

Carl copies my pose, letting out a long sigh. "I know. I just want to help find Sophia and they won't let me."

"Using the ' _You can't do that you're just a kid!'_ excuse?"

"Yep." He's silent for a beat before he hits his thigh lightly with his fist. "It's so annoying! I'm not a kid anymore!"

But he is. I am, too. That's what we are on the outside, but on the inside, we've aged a hundred years.

"Then prove that to them. You act like a kid, they treat you like a kid. You act like an adult, it may take a while, but they treat you like one. Eventually." I think back to those days on the road in the beginning. I screamed and ran away every chance I got. I acted like a kid, so that's exactly how I was treated. But, here, I walk into this camp with a bloodied sword on my back and yell at an intimidating man and I'm not as babied as I was before. I'm still handled like I'm fragile, but not like I'd already broken and needed to be glued back together.

"Was that how it was for you?"

I pick at the loose threads along the edge of my jacket, swallowing back the lump that appeared in my throat at the thought of what those words question. "I...didn't get to find out."

I inwardly cringe at the possible questioning I'm about to get when Lori's voice cuts through the bubble of conversation him and I had made around ourselves. "He's not mature enough to handle a gun."

Carl hesitates for a moment, sending a glance to me before determination spreads across his face in a style that reminds me of his father. He stands up and makes his way to the small group, looking awfully short in the crowd. "I'm not gonna play with it Mom. It's not a toy. I'm sorry I disappointed you, but I want to look for Sophia and I want to defend our camp. I can't do that without a gun."

I grin at his words, deciding to abandon my thought of blending in and journeying until I'm two steps behind him. I offer a one shoulder shrug to them. "What's the harm?"

Lori looks taken aback as Rick starts to speak, "Shane's the best instructor I know. I've seen him teach kids younger than Carl."

They hold each other's eyes for a moment, Rick looking hopeful and Lori like this was the hardest thing she'd ever had to agree on. It's like they were hosting their own battle in each other's minds, horses bucking and swords clashing.

Lori loses the war. I hadn't noticed how tense she had become until her stance deflates with the sigh she releases. She takes the steps to Carl, holds his chin in her hand. "You will take this seriously and you will behave responsibly. And if I hear from anyone in this camp that you are not living up to our expectations-"

"He won't let you down." Rick assures with a threatening look directed at Carl.

The boy nods. "Yeah."

Lori catches my eyes and I'm about to walk back to her when Rick calls me over to him.

"You said you didn't know how to shoot."

"Yes. I did. Why?" Even though I know the guy is more teddy bear than murderer by now, he still kind of scares me.

"Shane's agreed to teach you too."

"Shane doesn't like me." I half-whine.

Rick smiles. "Yeah, well he knows how to shoot a gun. That's more important."

I'm slightly annoyed at the fact that he's right.

"Fine. But can you make sure he is nowhere near the back of my head while he is aiming a gun, please?"

He chuckles and I conclude that I will not tell him that I was only half joking.

* * *

Rick and Shane station us in front of a fence topped with bottles and cans.

Mason's gun sits in my hands, a cool and heavy change. I keep staring at it as Shane kneels in front of the group of us and gives instructions or warnings or whatever he's saying. I'm too distracted by the weapon I'm holding. All I see when I look at it is Mason, army jacket and lopsided smile.

It's not until I see the splash against the black metal that I realize I'm crying.

I almost drop the gun in my haste to wipe away the tears without anyone noticing. I think I've gotten away with it when Carl nudges my arm with his elbow.

The concern alight in his eyes makes my heart swell and my annoyance wither away. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I say, looking to Shane even though his words aren't registering in my brain. Not even a second passed before I gazed back at the boy beside me. I can't even fool myself. "No."

His eyebrows draw down in worry and his mouth opens to speak when Shane yells, "Carl!"

We both jump and Carl looks disoriented for a second before he nods and steps forward. Shane had went over the parts and guided us on how to load and reload beforehand and Carl was set to be the role model. I didn't even have to ask him to know it made him feel mature.

Shane squats next to him and Rick and Lori crowd around, the latter placing a hand on my shoulder as if she was afraid that he'd somehow shoot me. Tips are whispered into Carl's ear by the man beside him before he walks back to where he was previously.

"Okay," Shane announces, clutching his belt in a way that reminded me of a cowboy. "Carl's gonna show us how."

The shot rings out loud and clear seconds later. He'd missed, but I imagine that he did better than I would have if I was put on the spot like that. "That's good. Very good." Rick praises before moving to walk behind everyone, long rifle in hand. "Alright, three rounds a piece. Everyone stay alert. We're taking a risk with the noise but a necessary one."

"Make these count. Range is hot." Shane adds.

My hands are shaking in a way I hope isn't obvious when I hold up my gun. I close one eye, aiming my sights just like Shane taught me to - in a surprisingly nice way - on a large green tinted glass bottle. Three shots. Wonder if I'll even hit the wooden fence before I have to stop.

The trigger seems like such a simple thing. You only have to push with a single finger to end someone's life. To end the rampage of a walker. Or to end the rampage of yourself.

Just one little push.

The bang is louder when you're the one holding the gun. It pushes back against my arms as the bullet leaves the chamber and my ears ring quietly with the sound it creates. This thing, this small little object can do so much damage. It's powerful, but sloppy. I already know I like my sword better. The silence, the gracefulness required to use it. It's more...beautiful. It may be close range and kind of gross, but it makes living in this world easier somehow.

"Good job!" Carl yells at me over the sound of gunfire.

I send him a confused look and he grins at me, pointing towards the fence. I follow, my eyes landing on the place of the bottle I'd been aiming at. Jagged green pieces sparkle in the sun like diamonds, some sticking out from the grasses and others laying fractured in triangles on the wooden beams.

"Oh my God, I hit it." I breath out. I look over at Carl, clutch his arm. "I hit it!" The surge of pride and joy I feel is unfamiliar and I grab onto it with everything I have.

He beams at me. "I bet I can hit the next one before you!" He does not yet know how competitive I can get. It isn't a good idea to challenge me.

I scoff and flick the rim of his hat with a smile that feels carefree for once. "Bring it on."

And even when he beats me and brags the entire way back to the camp, my mood can't be soured. It's like he's a bright patch in the darkness that's suddenly decided to make a home above my head. He's vivacious, so much so that it's almost annoying but that only makes me enjoy his presence more.

"So, do you know who you're staying with yet?" Carl asks me after we've returned our guns to the police bag. The stress and grief weighing down on my shoulders seemed to lighten just a tad when I put the weapon down. It was weird to me. Mason's jacket was my coping mechanism but his gun made me think of his death all over again.

"What do you mean?"

"In the tents. Who are you staying with?"

I blink. "Oh. No, I don't know yet." I hadn't thought about actually having to _sleep._ The thought of sleeping with a group again seemed too good to be true.

Carl sits on the rusted swing stationed in front of the RV and I join him without a second thought, placing my sword on the ground before sitting down. I cross my legs and let him swing us, leaning my head back and letting the small breeze whip against my cheeks. The metal lets out slight creaking sounds as we move back and forth but if anything it's soothing.

"Nevaeh?" Carl asks. His voice sounds almost scared.

My eyebrows scrunch at his tone as I hum in reply.

His boots kick off of the dirt once more before he turns to look at me with a curious and sad look on his face. Unease bubbles up in my stomach. Carl opens his mouth, then closes it, confliction cutting across the grey blue of his eyes. "What happened to your family?"

I toss the bright and curly hair flying into my vision back before replying with a simple and short, "They died." It still hurts _really bad_ when I say it.

"How?"

I'd told both Rick and Lori what had happened, but I hadn't gone into actual detail with either of them. I wasn't ready to do that yet. I wouldn't even let myself relive the events voluntarily.

My breath is growing shaky. I break the contact I have with him, looking at the RV. Particularly the red and white striped umbrella shading an empty chair from the sun that is slowly beginning to set. I tap my fingers against my knee, trying to bring myself a distraction from the memories attempting to bombard my mind.

"I-I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." He says quickly, catching me completely off guard. I expected a nudging, maybe even a, ' _come on you can tell me',_ but he moved on easily. I appreciate it more than he knows.

"What's your favorite food?"

I snort. "Does it matter?"

He grins, pushing us for another large swing. "It always matters."

I send him a look that says, ' _seriously?,_ and he just stares back patiently. I sigh. "Peeps. But only the pink ones."

"Only the pink ones." Carl echoes, amused.

"They _always_ taste better than the other ones." I explain. "Don't laugh at me."

He's smiling from ear to ear and looks like he's very close to bursting out laughing, but he shakes his head. "I'm not laughing!"

I huff disbelievingly. "What's _your_ favorite food?"

"Chocolate pudding."

I should've known it would be something like that. "Not a bad choice." I admit. We'd never be able to find either of those things now, but sometimes pretending was the best way to keep yourself going.

"Favorite color?"

I shake my head with a roll of my eyes, plucking at the dirtied shoe lace of my converse. "Carl, _why do you care_?" He says that these things _matter_ but they really _don't._ Not anymore. We don't get to turn up our noses and complain about things not being how we wanted them to be because now, the only thing that _matters_ is that you're alive. That you can _feel._ Even if feeling isn't exactly something you want to do.

Carl shrugs in an almost shy manner, not even fazed by the tone I just used. "You're my friend. Friends know everything about each other."

 _Friend._

We're friends.

The hostility I have towards him depletes and part of me - the part of me that's still young - peeks her head out of the debris of my life. She's covered in dust and blood and scars, but she's smiling wide with bright, unbroken brown eyes.

"Light blue." I mumble dejectedly. Just like his eyes.

"Mine's blue too!" I can tell he's smiling without looking up. Carl's one of those people whose voices give away everything. He'd be a bad liar. "What's…" He trails off and I peek up at him to see the most adorable expression of concentration on his face.

I bite my lip to keep back a smile.

"What's your favorite memory?"

I don't take time to give him my answer. I'd thought about it too much after my dad died. Even more when I was on my own. "My family went to the beach one summer. My dad had work, said he couldn't make it and my Mom had been planning the trip for so long that we went anyway. She'd decided to sunbathe when we got there, and Mason, my brother, was bored. So he took me to the boardwalk. We bought cotton candy and spent _hours_ just browsing through the knick-knack shops. We even got our faces painted. I got a dolphin and he," I chuckle, surrounded by memories of the past. "He got a panda because it was the face painter's favorite animal and he wanted her number. He was so happy when he got it, too.

"When we went back down to the beach, there was my Dad, in Spongebob Squarepants swim trunks, dumping my Mom into the water. He'd managed to get the day off and drove to meet us. We spent the rest of the day playing tag in the water and eating _a lot_ of candy. My dolphin was completely gone and my eyes burned, but it had been worth it. And that night, the town was having a firework show, so - even though I was eleven - my Dad let me sit on his shoulders while we watched them. They were so beautiful."

I blink once, twice. My eyes snap around to the RV, the rusted flecks of the chair, the yellowed leaves falling from the trees above. My heart plummets. It wasn't real. Of course. _This_ is real. _Carl_ is real. That day was long gone and so were the people there.

I clear my throat both to get the formed lump to disappear and to cut through the somber air I'd created. Strands of hair are tucked behind my ear. It's something I'm told I do when I'm nervous or uncomfortable. "So, yeah. That's my favorite memory."

' _We may not be next to you, but we're in your memories and that's what counts.'_

It may be what counts but it's also what hurts the most.

"That sounds fun. I love cotton candy." The urge to laugh at his comment is hard to suppress. "Mine is my eleventh birthday party. Mom and Dad took me to the King County Cafe. My Dad always said that my Mom was a bad cook so they had the cooks there make a cake for me. They sang happy birthday and we just...talked. And ate cake."

" _Is_ your Mom a bad cook?"

"Yes. Whenever she tried to make pancakes they were always burnt." He pulls a face of disgust and I snicker.

"I had my eighth birthday at the King County Cafe. Did they take your picture and-"

"Hang it over the counter? Yep." He smiles for a moment before his eyes widen. "Wait, you lived in King County?"

"Well…" I decide not to explain all that I did to Lori. "Yeah."

"Wow. Okay." His mouth scrunches to one side of his face as he thinks. "Then what's-"

I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "It's my turn." I'm tired of talking about myself. It's only making me sadder.

He looks surprised before grinning. "Fine. Your turn."

I bite the inside of my cheek. I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to ask him. I glance around at everything to get an idea, stopping on the object settled on his head. I point at it. "Why the hat?"

His eyes flicker upward and his smile warms. "It used to be my Dad's. We were both shot and when you're shot, you get to wear the hat." I think that Carl Grimes is the only one who can make getting shot sound like you won the freaking Olympics.

"So if I was shot, would you let me wear it?"

"Do you want to?"

I tilt my head and stare at him. "Hmm...maybe?"

"I could let you." Carl's voice is laced with excitement. "Just...don't get shot. It hurts."

I don't know if it's the bluntness of his statement or the obviousness to it but I laugh. It's the first time I've heard myself straight out do so in a while and it feels good to be at least _a little_ happy. "Never would have guessed _that_." I gasp out sarcastically.

Carl stares.

"What?" I ask.

His lips lift as he shakes his head. "Nothing."

I ponder pressing him but remember how cool he was about me not wanting to talk about my family, so I move on, thinking of another question to ask him. I may have thought it was somewhat of a stupid thing to do seeing as if we were in a life or death situation knowing that I was obsessed with Peeps wouldn't be helpful at all, but it was surprisingly entertaining getting to know Carl. It felt human and I hadn't really had that feeling since I put on a black dress and went to my father's funeral.

I uncross my legs and bring my feet down to assist him in sending us swinging. Someone laughs from behind us and my eyes close for a second to take in the noise. "What's your favorite sound?"

"Sound?"

"Yeah. Mornings are my favorite sound. Where you've just woken up and you don't really know what's going on yet, but you can hear bacon sizzling and coffee brewing and your parents laughing over some old memory over the sound of the radio playing. There's just something about it that's...happy." I ignore the grief trying to bombard me and look to Carl with raised eyebrows. "What about you?"

He smiles but it seems like he's restraining himself from pulling an ear-splitting grin. "I've never thought about it before."

"I like thinking about things like that. Things that are usually overlooked, you know?"

"Yeah." Carl replies and I wonder if he's just agreeing because it's easier to do that than to question how weird I am.

I grin at the effort, nudging his shoulder with mine. "Your turn."

"What do you do for fun?"

"Well, before I had walkers trying to kill me all the time, I liked to draw."

Carl's interest was clearly piqued. "Were you good at it?"

I crinkle my nose. "I guess I was."

"Do you have any of your drawings?"

I look at him like he's crazy. "I have a sketchbook."

His eyes light up. "Can I see it?"

"No."

Carl pouts. "Why not?"

I absentmindedly clutch the strap thrown over my shoulder. "I've never liked people looking at my drawings. That hasn't changed."

The boy beside me crosses his arms and drops his head down sadly. This is the first time I've really seen the emotion on him and already I don't like it. "Hey," I call to get his attention and to get that look off of his face because it's bothering me. "What about you? What do you do for fun?"

That smile I've begun to get used to returns. "Read."

My lips curl. "Read?"

"Comics."

"Oh." Not as bad. I run the toe of my shoe through the dirt below us. I make a heart, scribble over it, create a sad face next. "I've never read one before." I comment offhandedly.

" _What?!_ "

I snort at his reaction, moving my stare from my artwork to his astounded expression. "I don't understand them."

"What?" He repeats, but more calmly.

"You know the speech bubbles?" He nods. "They're all over the place. It confuses me and I usually get so mad that I throw them away."

Carl sends me that bunny glare for half a second. "Wait here." He orders before stopping our light swinging and standing up.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a comic."

"Seriously?"

He rests his hands on his hips and narrows those pretty eyes at me. "I'm going to teach you how to read them and you're going to realize how awesome they are." I listen to his boots crunch against dead leaves as he heads towards a large black tent stationed close to the RV.

And then I laugh.

I like him.

"Hi there!" I jump so hard the chair swings without the guidance of my feet. I look up, breathless, to see the old man with the busy shirt from before we went out for shooting practice. He leans against the metal frame of the swing, elbow holding up his form. A smile, so caring and gentle splits across his aged face and brown eyes that resemble chocolate pools in the sunlight stare down at me. "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Dale."

He reminded me so much of my grandfather that my heart hurt more than it already did.

I open my mouth to respond when I smell it. Food. Beautiful, delicious, rare, _glorious_ _food._ My eyes search for the source and land on a blue plate in his hand supporting the most appealing piece of meat I'd seen since all of this started. Grease spilled out from where it sat and until that moment I never thought I'd be so happy to see the substance.

"Um," I intelligently respond, trying to look at his face and away from the appetizing plate in front of me. I don't think I do a good job of it. "Nevaeh."

That smile widens. "Nice to meet you Nevaeh." He bows his head down slightly as he says that and I spot a minuscule streak of white paint darting down the rim of the beige fishing hat on top of his head. I wonder how it got there. "I was just making dinner for the group and thought that you'd be hungry." The delectable meat is pushed towards me.

"That's for me?"

Dale's warm brown eyes twinkle with amusement. "Absolutely."

I take my time in grasping the blue plastic just so he won't think I'm a lunatic. He hands me a fork after I have it in my hands. I totally would have eaten it without one but I decide not to share that detail and grab the utensil anyway. "Thank you."

"It's no problem. How are you liking it here so far?"

I shove a bite of meat in my mouth, forcing myself not to moan at how good it tastes and focus on Dale's question. "Everyone I've met is nice, Carl especially. Shane was a little...harsh and I kind of yelled at him, but I think he just has trust issues. I _did_ just randomly show up and get thrown into the group and I get how that can make someone mad."

Dale pats my shoulder. "Don't worry about it too much. Everyone is fine with you bein' here. Carol's really lookin' forward to talkin' to you."

"Carol?"

He points behind us, further into camp. "That lady right over there." I look over my shoulder to see a woman sitting in one of the dirtied fold up chairs. Her hair is cut short and beginning to grey and she looks into the small fire in front of her blankly as if she's somewhere else, seeing something else. Even from the distance I can see the devastating clear blue of her eyes.

It makes no sense, but I know what she's seeing in the hypnotic movement of the flames. A different time; a time when grocery stores were bright and ringing with the cries of children and laughter and not the haunting moans of the undead. Times when you didn't wake up and wonder if today could be the day you died. When you ate breakfast with a joyful family and had no worries of a stomach so empty you felt as if it were collapsing in on itself.

The old days.

So dearly missed and departed that they're called _the old days_.

I redirect my gaze back down to the plate in my lap before I burst into tears, nausea creeping up on me like a wave. I place the fork down, gulping and meeting the warm brown that suddenly has me feeling exposed. It feels like Dale can see all that I've been trying to hide and bury under happiness that has just recently started to become true and not faked. Every _hurt_ , every insecurity. "Is she okay?"

He doesn't even seem surprised by my question. "Her daughter went missin' a few days ago. She's...coping."

I immediately want to help in the search for this girl. _Sophia_ , Carl had said her name was. What does she look like? What kind of smile does she have? The kind that is full blown and distracts you from everything because all you can do is stare, or the type that slowly begins with a small lift of one side of the lips but slowly extends to the other one in a way that's always reminded me of a held back river suddenly being set free again? Carl's smile is like that. The corners of his eyes crinkle, too.

"Dale?" I call up at him, my mind buzzing with things to ask to get my thoughts away from giggling with a faceless girl and drawing her face in my sketchbook. "How'd that paint get on your hat?"

Curiosity invades his jolly features as he reaches up and plucks the fishing hat off his head and searches the rim for the streak in question. The sun shines against the revealed grey hairs and something about it almost makes me laugh. "Well will you look at that," He mutters absentmindedly, rubbing a gentle thumb over the splash of color with a nostalgic smile. I start to think he's going to deny me the story behind it when he brings his eyes back to mine.

And I can see every emotion he hides behind that facade of optimism. "My wife had just discovered she was pregnant and we'd moved into a new house to prepare for the baby. We were painting the nursery together, listening to - oh, what was that song?" Dale purses his lips together and looks as if he's berating himself before he snaps his fingers with the hand not holding the hat. " _Sweet Life_ by Paul Davis. That was it." He chuckles but there's a somber air to it. "She got a little haphazard with the brush and by the end of it we were both covered in paint."

I try to imagine a younger Dale, all dark haired and young, chasing after a no doubt beautiful woman with a determined furrow in his brow but playfulness shining in those eyes, the song that I'm dying to hear playing in the background along with their shrieks of laughter.

That little piece of material in his hands must have seen so many stories unfold.

I know she's dead - I can see it in his eyes - but the story still makes me feel giddy. "What was her name?"

"Irma." Dale replies, voice thick with emotion.

I sigh and bite my lip, look down, then back up again. "Before or after?"

He clears his throat and secures the cap back onto his head. "Before. Cancer."

I picture that same beautiful woman in a hospital gown, frail and grey and wearing a pretty scarf around her head, just as busy as Dale's shirts, smiling just as kind as her husband seems to. I see blue eyes, I can't help but see blue eyes.

I don't say sorry. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it just doesn't feel like enough. Because if I've learned anything, sorry doesn't bring back the dead. It only reminds you that they're gone.

"Thank you for telling me. Trusting me enough to." I settle with.

"I like to think that when this world takes me down, there'll be stories to tell."

I spot Carl's hat beginning to poke out of the entrance of his tent as I smile. "I'd like to hear them sometime."

"I'd be more than happy to share them with you. Just come find me." His eyes are wet with incoming tears but he still beams at me before nodding and walking back to where he came from, most likely to cook more food for the others.

Carl plops down next to me right after and sends the both of us swinging again. "Sorry I took so long."

I shrug in return to his apology. "Carl?"

Pale blue eyes snap up to me.

"What's Sophia like?"

He stills and his eyebrows furrow. We stare at each other for what seems like forever, the amount of sadness in those orbs catching me off guard. It was like a grey cloud suddenly shielding the Sun from you.

"Happy." He finally says. I notice how his fingers tap against his thigh in a rhythm. Maybe that's his nervous habit. "She likes butterflies. We used to play in the woods at our old camp and look for them."

I see that same faceless girl and Carl trying to be quiet as they search around the greenery but laughing their heads off when he trips on a log and falls into a pile of dead leaves. The image almost has me laughing too. "What's her favorite?"

"The Glasswinged Butterfly. She always says that she saw hundreds of them in the forest one time and since then she's been trying to find one again, so I help her."

I don't know butterflies well, so I have no idea what a glasswinged one looks like, but I can assume from the name.

I hesitate before asking the next question. Carl seems upset enough talking about her, but I can't get the thought of drawing a girl caressing a butterfly perched on her finger with spindly legs out of my head. "What does her smile look like?"

That river smile slowly spreads across his face. "Her smile?"

"Yes. Just...explain what it looks like."

"Why?"

"I told you I liked to draw."

Carl tilts his head. "You want to draw her?"

The more time I spend talking to this boy the more I realize how much of a dork he is.

"Of course I do. I draw everyone I meet."

"Does that mean you'll draw me?"

Definitely.

"I don't know."

He playfully pouts and leans back, the comic decorated with men in superhero costumes and the word _Invincible_ spreading across the cover being forgotten for the time being. "It was always shy, like she was scared, but it made you want to smile back. It had a way of making you believe everything was...okay again."

That's the first time I really heard Carl acknowledge how crappy the world had become and it shocked me more than it probably should have.

I wipe a finger under my eyes just in case and look down at my half eaten plate of meat. "We need to find her."

"I _tried_. They took my gun away. Shane'll kill me if I try that again."

"I can do it." I offer. "No one will even notice I'm gone."

Carl immediately shakes his head. "No."

I frown. "Why?"

"You can't go out there alone." He sits up so suddenly that the swing shakes. "What if you run into a walker and can't kill it?"

"You think I can't kill them?"

"No!" He shouts, sticking his arms out in front of him. "No. That's not it. I just…don't want to lose another friend."

I press my lips together, studying his features. That elation from earlier has disappeared and he shows me the real impact all this has had on him. He's not broken yet, but the misery he hides behind that charming innocence makes me want to hug him so hard he can't breathe.

"Me either. So let's make a promise," I hold my hand out to him, sticking my pinky in the air. "I won't die if you won't die."

Carl glances at it. "Really?"

I nod. "Come on."

"That's for kids."

"Sorry to break it to you, but that's exactly what we are. So, promise me."

He sighs but the corner of his lips are turning up. "Fine." He relents, looping his pinky around mine. "I promise I won't die."

"And I promise I won't either." I grin as we both let go and proceed to grab the colorful comic out of his lap. "Now teach me how the heck I read this thing."

* * *

Turns out I'm going to be sharing a tent with Andrea.

After barely understanding Carl's teaching of how to read a comic - something I feel incredibly stupid for - he introduced me to her. She was shattered, too. Despite that though, she was nice, nicer than Shane was when I first arrived. She even taught me how to sharpen and clean my sword.

So I think having her as a roommate won't be unbearable.

"We'll get you a sleeping bag next time we go out for supplies." Andrea tells me as she leaves our tent. "It won't be a problem."

I seize the opportunity. "I can go with you, help out."

The disbelieving look that crosses her features has me gritting my teeth. "I don't think that'd be a good idea." She says it as if she's speaking to a five year old who wants cookies before dinner.

"Why not?"

Andrea looks taken aback at my tone and I find satisfaction in the way she hesitates. "Well, It's not safe for you out there."

I had already expected an answer like that, but it still pissed me off. I take a deep breath in order to stop myself from yelling. "You literally just helped me clean off my _sword_. I was on my own for _four_ days, something you know already and you think I _can't handle myself?!_ Just because you're older doesn't mean you're more experienced. The world went to shit at the same time for the both of us. We've both been through the same thing, we've both lost people. And if I have to go out into the woods, decapitate a walker, and bring it back to you to prove myself, then I will."

The shock she sends back to me calms me down enough so that I can walk away calmly without punching something. Scratch what I said about it being easy to share a living space with her. If she's going to treat me like I'm a five year old who still believes in unicorns, then we're going to have a problem. I'm a kid and I get that, but it doesn't mean I have to be treated like one.

I return to the swing Carl and I sat on earlier, pulling the peach Glenn gave me out of my bag and taking a big bite. It tastes like heaven compared to the canned ones I've been living off of. I savor the juice that partially hydrates my chapped lips and look out to the fields dowsed in the orange glow of the slowly setting sun.

This is something I wouldn't have cared to see before the turn.

I spent my days at home doing homework, watching Netflix, and drawing faces - people I passed on the street that I thought were beautiful or unique. Sometimes my Dad would even take me to this diner. The type with a faded jukebox in the corner and velvety red booths and checkered floors. It was called _Millie's_ and they had the absolute _best_ milkshakes. He would get chocolate and I would get strawberry and we would sit for _hours_ just talking while I drew people sitting around us.

I haven't had a milkshake since before he died.

I was already struggling after his funeral when the walkers started showing up and I'd never told anybody, but when everything was happening, I thought it _made sense_. My Dad was dead, it was only logical that the world would end with him. But then I saw all the despair swallowing up all of those faces I once thought were beautiful and carefree when the bombs dropped on Atlanta. It was then that I realized that what was happening - the monsters - wasn't because my Dad died. It was because of something else.

And suddenly I was on the run from that something else and somewhere in that journey I learned that there were still gorgeous things on this Earth. The sun rose every day with a mosaic of colors, beat down on all the things under it, and then set just as beautifully.

The world is still _alive_.

I forget about it sometimes and start to lose hope, but then like now, I sit down and _be_.

"Nevaeh." And then it's always ruined. I look around at the sound of my name, only now realizing that I've consumed the peach down to it's pit. I throw it down before continuing my search through the camp.

It's Rick, standing by the yellow car I first met him at. He ushers me over when we make eye contact and the closer I get to him the more I realize how distressed he looks. His blue eyes are red from what I assume are previously shed tears and the curls in his hair look mussed up. The man doesn't give me the intimidating vibe anymore. He looks like a lost puppy that just got ran over and lived to see another day.

"Yeah?" I question when I reach him, my voice unexpectedly soft.

Rick gestures to the map laid out against the hood. Narrow red lines spread across the paper, leading to hopeful circles being denied by fat x's. "I was hopin' you'd show me how you got here so we could narrow down the places Sophia could be."

I nod before he even finishes his sentence, pointing to the place my old camp was and dragging my finger along the map in a straight line, speaking about the houses I'd stayed in. I mention the cot in the cabin I found shelter in my first night and Rick's features take a turn for hopeful as the words leave my mouth.

As he pulls out the red marker and makes new sketches on the map, I press my lips together and contemplate whether or not I should ask him if I could join the search for her. But then I focus on his eyes and notice the far away look in them. His actions are in the present but his mind is elsewhere. I focus on that instead.

"Are you okay?"

Rick blinks, shakes his head. "Sorry?"

"You look terrible, Rick. _Are you okay_?"

He stares at me and I wonder if he's finally seeing me as someone other than the little girl Carl found in the barn. "Fine. I'm...fine."

The hesitation tells me he's lying, but I'm positive he won't tell a girl who's been here for less than one day what's bothering him, so I settle with an, "Okay." and move on to gesture to the map laid out in front of us. "I want to help look for Sophia."

"No." He doesn't even glance at me.

I sigh with frustration. "I thought you'd understand after what I said to Shane, but clearly Carl is the only one who does. I'm young, I get that. I _absolutely_ get it after being looked at like I'm trying to stab myself with a spoon when I offer to help with something like this. But understand _this_ , Rick: I'm thirteen years old, yes, but...my entire family is dead. I know what walkers can do, I know that you have to be on guard every second you're out here, and most importantly, I know how to protect myself. So trust that I can go out into those woods and find this girl because I can't stand thinking about someone being alone just like I was. Living on the run from the dead like you are may suck, but being alone while doing it is even worse."

Rick's eyes bore into mine and I know he's searching for weakness. I build up the walls I've been perfecting over the past four days and glare back, my hands clutching the inside pockets of my jacket hard. He has to let me do this. I know Carl will either say it's unfair or worry about me - something that makes my heart warm -, but if I don't at least try to look for Sophia, I won't forgive myself.

Rick breaks away, clears his throat. "Tomorrow, noon. Andrea and I were already plannin' on goin' out."

It won't make Andrea happy either but hopefully I'll get a chance to rub it in her face that I can hold myself up and not fall apart like the kid she thinks I am. Walkers make me mad more than they scare me and I thrive on that anger when the time comes.

I bounce on my heels as I smile. "Thanks, Rick." I turn to walk away before he changes his mind, but I can't help but throw over my shoulder, "And if you want people to believe you when you say you're fine, relax your posture and try not to look like you got run over. Your tenseness makes my shoulders hurt."

I see his body loosen from the corner of my eye.


	6. 06

**Long live Carl Grimes.**

* * *

Nightmares seeped into my dreams, shining red like blood.

 _Screams echoed around my skull in the darkness, those of my old group and those of the new one. I could spot flashes of light curls that I knew were Mason's in the shadows and I could hear his yells above everyone else's, getting closer and closer. But he never came to me._

 _Something grabbed my hand. "Nevaeh, come on!" It was Carl, shirt soaked dark red and face covered in blood. My heart stopped at the sight of him._

 _He pulled and tugged on my hand but I couldn't move. "No." I whispered. Carl wasn't supposed to look like that. Not now and not ever._

 _He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Wake up!"_

" _What?"_

 _His eyes were frantic and filled with panic. "Wake up!"_

I shot up so quick black dots swarmed my eyesight. I was quick to blink them away and adjust myself to my surroundings. I was in the tent Andrea and I shared, not..whatever that place was. Carl sat in front of me, blue eyes big and worried.

"What…" I didn't notice how out of breath I was until I spoke. "Why are you in here?"

"My mom told me to come wake you up. Carol's making breakfast." His words are said slow, like he's calculating whether or not he's right in saying them. He stares at me, scans my form as if looking for injuries, and then asks, "Are you okay?"

The concern in his voice catches me off guard. I break away from our eye contact and ignore the excitement of someone caring for me swirling in my stomach. "Uh, yeah. I'm fine, it was just a nightmare." I'm too scared to look at his eyes again because I know they'll be filled with pity, so I clear my throat and throw the jacket that I used as a pillow on my arms before grabbing my sword and standing. I wince as I do, the pain in my thighs acting as a reminder of my bewildering horse ride yesterday. I hope the boy sitting below me didn't notice as I power through the sting and continue, "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

I feel like a jerk as I leave him there. The twist in my gut at my actions is ignored as I set my eyes out on a mission for food. Andrea sharpens a knife to my left. She sends me an icy blue good morning glance before returning to her actions. Thank God Carl was the one to wake me up mid-nightmare and not her. I'd get the ultimate pity treatment and I really didn't need her to be seeing me as a child at the moment.

I divert my eyes from the woman to a man I didn't get the opportunity to meet yesterday, squeezed into a dirty blue lawn chair. His head of unruly brown hair is bent, occupied with scarfing down the eggs of his plate. He wears a button down shirt, but the sleeves are ripped off, showing that he is definitely not one who goes for fancy attire. I can't see his eyes yet I still feel like he could kill me with a glance.

I look away when his gaze starts to lift.

I try to keep my eyes from wandering as I walk up to the small fire surrounded by Carol and T-Dog, who I met in passing last night. He'd just smiled and said welcome. He also called me Newbie, which is something I'm unsure if I like. I force a smile onto my face in greeting even though my eyes are slightly blurry from sleep and the sweat created by my nightmares still lingers on my neck. Carol sends me a small one back. I haven't had a conversation with her yet. I feel like all that will come out of one is suffering and heartache and I'm not ready for that right now. Maybe when we find Sophia I will be.

T-Dog wipes his fingers on the towel draped around his droplet- covered neck and reaches for a plate piled with fresh eggs. I smell them before the ceramic even touches my fingers and my mouth immediately begins to water. He smirks at me. "Here you go, Newbie."

Yeah. I like my real name better.

"Thanks." I manage out through my hidden displeasure, slipping a fork from the pile on a separate towel laid out on the ground and moving to sit next to Lori when she motions me over to her and her husband.

"Good morning, sweetheart." She greets me in a motherly tone. It's irritating and comforting at the same time.

I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth to hide the frown that was beginning to crease onto my face. "Morning." I mumble around the food.

Carl comes stepping out of the tent Andrea and I share a second later, boyish grin so wide and bright it took away from the intensity of the bags under his happy blue eyes. As he grabbed a plate from the two group members attending the fire and grew closer to where I sat, I studied him more. I didn't care that he was looking at me and could clearly tell I was staring at him, I was intrigued. The dark circles hiding under those eyelashes gave way to the struggles he hid behind that joy he hit me with constantly. They were from the stress of Sophia, no doubt. Whether we would find her, whether she would be all right, whether she was even _alive_. I wanted to pat his shoulder and tell him everything was okay, that we'd be okay and everyone else would be too, but I couldn't.

It was all lies. Lies that I wished would come true but never would.

I pull my steady stare away from him to continue engulfing the delicious food on my plate. When I finish, Lori offers to take my plate and I let her, feeling like it'll give her some satisfaction. I've been catching the glances she sends at me from the corner of her eye and it's beginning to frustrate me to an extent to where I don't mind if she leaves my side for a few minutes. Or hours.

As she stands, I'm given a clear shot of Rick. I'm glad to see his shoulders are relaxed, but with the faraway look in his bloodshot and tired eyes, that doesn't mean anything. Add the dark bags and he looks downright pitiful. I want to say something to him. I scan my brain for anything, but come up blank. If I had something to say I would have applied it to myself already because I know I'm having as much trouble as him dealing with everything.

He must sense my stare because he turns his head and meets my eyes directly. I offer a small smile without any emotion behind it and I can tell he sends the same thing right back. I'm the first to look away, my soul weighing with the realization of just how much hope has been depleted from all of these people. It's a hard resource to come by these days, but I plan on keeping it in my veins until I'm able to draw Sophia from memory of spending time with her.

I feel a poke in my arm - a fork-like poke - and then Carl's voice is right next to my ear. "When I have nightmares, my Mom always says it's better to talk about them." My defenses soften, just slightly. I look over at him in time to see him shrug his shoulders, the shy smile on his lips showing me a whole new side of his personality. His voice is small and maybe a little bit insecure when he says, "You can talk to me. If you want."

I chew on the inside of my cheek in the seconds following his offer. "Okay." I finally respond, just to give him a break and open myself up to the possibility of trusting him. We're friends - that's what he said, at least - and I think it'd be nice to talk to someone again. I shoot a glance at Rick, my previous thoughts bombarding my brain again. We were supposed to be going out to look for Sophia today and I knew Carl wouldn't like it and surely find it unfair, so I'm unsure whether or not I should tell him about it. But, if I don't, will he be mad at me? I don't think I want to see him mad. Especially at me.

I let out a sigh. Friendships are so complicated.

"Um, guys," A voice I recognize as Glenn's only from the amount of uncertainty in it cuts through my emotional turmoil and causes my sight to shift upwards. I'm unsurprised to see him shifting from leg to leg. His dark eyes dart everywhere but to the eyes of other group members. I see his Adam's apple bob from where I sit as he rubs a nervous hand against his cheek.

The people around me glance at him but otherwise go back to consuming their food. I keep my attention on him, especially after I spot Dale's expression. His eyebrows are raised high, expecting, and his brown eyes are burning a hole through Glenn's head. I copy the look as I focus back on the man, mentally yelling at him to spit out what he's stuttering under his breath.

"The barn's full of walkers." I'm consumed in watching his shoulders sag and the tension that I hadn't even known was tightening his face ease away.

I don't even comprehend what he said until Shane lets out an outraged, "What?!", slams his plate down on one of the dark wooden tables around the camp and marches off in the direction of the structure with a scowl that makes a shiver go down my spine.

 _Walkers._

 _Barn._

I'm not even sure how to take the new onslaught of information, but I am _sure_ that my stomach churns with fear. Images flash across my mind. Walkers stumbling over gates strewn with barbed wire. Dark red liquid spilling over the grey concrete of driveways. Warm brown eyes slowly losing their warmth and the light of life in them. My heart constricts. I hear it pounding in my ears, loud and clear.

Fingers wrap around my forearm and I flinch hard, but they don't let go. I look for the source, only to find my eyes are too blurry with the supply of water to see clearly. "Nevaeh." the voice is calm and soft over the noise in my ears and I struggle to grasp onto it.

I try to respond with something, anything, but all that comes out is a sharp and heartbreaking gasp. All I can see is blood. So much blood. So _red. So dark._

"I...I...can't." I manage to force out, the struggle and pain in my voice completely overwhelming me. I did so well in keeping my wall constructed and now it's broken again and I can't put the rubble back in place.

The grip on my flesh disappears and suddenly I'm wrapped up in arms. I know it's not Carl judging by the strength and size of them, but the person's chest is warm and comforting, so I lean into them. I try to blink away the tears and swallow hard and painfully to push back the approaching sobs, but with the way my breathing is growing ragged, it's not working well. The person securing me in their arms rubs a soothing hand over my back and I can _feel_ the assurance it carries slipping through all of the fabric.

"It's okay to cry, Nevaeh. I do it too." With the nervous energy absent, I can barely tell it's Glenn's voice. My trust for this group grows with the realization. The two of us had only spoken once and it was awkward and short, but here Glenn was, wrapping his arms around me like Mason always did when I was upset and saying it was okay to cry. The tone in his voice told me judgement was the last thing shining in his eyes. He wanted me to trust him enough to bring him into the rubble inside my heart and show him _me._ The me whose stomach dropped with fear of getting bit every time she saw a walker, the me who sees the family picture flash across her eyes everytime someone smiles and tempts her to do so too.

And the thing that both scares and exhilarates me at the same time?

I bury my head into his shirt and let everything escape, the sobs, the tears, the misery, the pain of being all alone, the relief of finding Carl and having his shine of innocence in my life, the satisfaction of having Glenn - having a _human being_ \- care about my well being enough to stay behind when the group angrily marched down to an undead filled barn to talk about a very important threat and pick up the pieces that didn't glue as well as others when I haphazardly stuck my shattered pieces back together.

All of those emotions, powerful and overwhelming, fall onto the white shirt Glenn wears as small blobs of grey through my blurry vision. Something so simple, a drop of water that would dry in the sun as quick as it appears on the material, is destroying me. The man enveloping me in his arms runs his fingers into a curl lying against my back and watches it bounce back as an absent-minded action, while I can only think of one thing:

 _It isn't supposed to be this way._

I sniffle so I don't get snot on his perfect shirt and swipe my hand against my cheeks to wipe away the wet trails even though they're quickly being replaced. "It should have been me. I shouldn't have survived." I murmur, not realizing the words even slipped past my lips until Glenn's fingers dig gently into my shoulders and pull me away from his dotted chest.

His lips are pursed, eyes widened just enough so I can see the worry and spark of anger in the dark brown of them. "Hey," He says, so softly I can barely hear him over the rustle of the wind in the trees. "Don't think like that."

I watch as the sun transforms the lighter specks of brown in his irises into a pretty gold. I'd have to draw him, too. He was one of those people that maybe weren't that noticeable with one glance, but his eyes were gentle and sweet and when I really studied him, he was kind of adorable. Like a small little brother you just wanted to hug. Or in my case, an older one.

The turn of my thoughts puts a sour taste in my mouth and I'm back into the conversation with a new blow of hurt. "Why not? I can't survive like this."

A corner of Glenn's lips lift. "You already are." His attention shifts, just for a moment, when we hear an angry yell come from the direction of the barn, but it's back on me in an instant. "We've all lost somebody close to us. It's just the way you cope with it that decides how you survive."

I mull that over in my mind, trying to contemplate if he's actually as correct as he sounds. "How do _you_ cope?"

Glenn sighs, bringing one hand up to remove his dusted baseball cap and the other to run through his jet black hair. "I just try to remember that they wouldn't want me in pain over them." His voice slowly fades away with the chilly breeze and he shifts his vulnerable gaze down, offering me a half-hearted shrug. "It works most of the time."

I want to ask about what he does when 'most of the time' fails and who exactly he lost to put him here, in this group with people I can barely believe are this welcoming and trusting.

But I don't. Instead I think about Mason and Mom and Dad and how they would react to me breaking down over them like this. I voluntarily flash back to that night for once, the specks of blood on the rug and the pallor of Mason's skin is almost felt under my fingertips. I see him in front of me, fading eyes filled with understanding and cheeks stained with dry streams.

 _Nevaeh, you will never be alone. I'm always gonna be there. So are Mom and Dad. We may not be next to you, but we're in your memories and that's what counts. You're going to get out of here and you are going to run as fast as you can, okay? Run until you find a group that will protect you, love you like family. A group just like this one. Move on from them, from me. You need to live._

It feels like I'm swallowing sawdust. "I need to live." I croak out, so quiet I don't think Glenn is able to hear it. I found a group just like he said. Now all I have to do is move on and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that.

But I found a group. I'm getting somewhere.

I loosely wrap my arms around Glenn's neck and pull myself closer to him. "Thank you." I mumble into his shoulder with genuine feeling.

It takes him a second to respond with a few pats and a, "Always." The honesty laced into that word makes me want to burst into tears again.

Silence encompasses us when I let go and even though it's comfortable for once, I hate the soft ringing of it in my ears. So I ask, "Is that why you were so nervous yesterday? Because of the whole barn thing?"

Glenn accepts the subject change and nods, slipping his hat back over his hair. "Yeah. That and...uh...Maggie." His knee begins to bounce and I'm about to kid him about it when I fully register his sentence.

"Maggie!? Beth's sister?" I question, my voice coming out surprisingly enthusiastic.

Glenn's eyebrows furrow, most likely wondering about my sudden excitement too, but a wide lopsided smile is forming on his lips. "Yeah, she's Beth's sister. She's-"

"Alive." Slips out of my mouth with a large amount of relief for Beth. Thank God those suns were still stuck on that frame because there was light in her life. Glenn's looking at me with confused and jubilant eyes and it's not until I meet his gaze that I realize I'm smiling. It brings me out of my grateful haze. "Wait, what does Maggie have to do with why you were nervous earlier?"

"Well...uh," Fiddling fingers join his jumping leg and I bite my tongue to keep it from saying anything about it because now I'm more than interested to hear what he has to say. "She was kind of the reason I found out about the barn and she didn't want me to tell anyone, but I had to. It's just-"

"You didn't want to because you like her." I guess, his smile nudging memories from the back of my mind.

Glenn blinks. "How'd you know that?"

I purse my lips together and take a deep breath, remembering what he'd told me just a few minutes ago. _Be strong because that's what they'd want._ "My Dad used to smile like that whenever he talked about my Mom."

His smile falters and I watch him figure out what the use of the word 'used' means in my sentence. He clears his throat and looks conflicted just for a second before he sighs. "That doesn't really matter. She hates me now."

My defenses collapse with alleviation and my respect for Glenn grows. "No she doesn't. If she's Beth's sister, she can't hate you." Beth is the nicest person I've ever met even with the loss of her Mom and there's no way someone can grow up with a sister like that and hate someone for protecting people. Even if it meant spilling a secret. "Go find her."

The expression Glenn takes on helps a smile overtake my lips again. His eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Now?"

"Yes, now." I bump his shoulder with mine for encouragement. "Find her and get her to talk to you."

Now both of his legs bob up and down. He's scattering leaves underneath his worn sneakers, the dirt speckling them getting thrown onto my ankles. "Okay." He breathes. "Okay."

"Go. And don't be nervous, she's just a girl."

The look Glenn sends me says that I'm not helping one bit, but he stands and begins to walk towards the white farmhouse anyway. "Good luck!" I call to his retreating form and he sends me an agitated smile over his shoulder that causes me to chuckle.

And this time the sound doesn't take me by surprise.

Those who journeyed down to the barn return in groups, Lori and Carl first. The latter plops down beside me the second he sees the rim of red around my eyes and stares into my soul. I want to look away from him, avoid the way he seems to appear like he knows everything and is just waiting for me to confirm it, but I know I'll just be drawn back to the blue of his irises. "You okay?" He asks, his voice a volume only the two of us can hear in our own bubble

I scan over the conversation that I just had in my head, taking out the important details and burning the memory of suffering it took for me to break apart enough for Glenn to get to me. I laugh airily and it's anything but humorous. "That's a good question."

Without breaking the stare we have, Carl reaches for my wrist. It's a gentle hold that moves further down my hand to my smallest finger. He wraps his pinky around my own, a gesture that feels meaningful even though we'd just established it yesterday. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He sounds so burdened - so understanding - that I can't believe he's my age. It's hard to remember that he hasn't lost anyone enough to truly suffer yet and there's no way he'll be able to comprehend the pain I have beating around inside of me, but he's trying and that's more than I've gotten in a while. _You can talk to me_ , he'd said.

"Sure."


	7. 07

I promise myself I won't cry.

Carl leads me to a large tree with browning leaves rooted a significant distance from camp. A small red wagon rusted with orange sits half buried in the dirt and vines crawl up the sides, littered here and there with white flowers, and two comic books lay on the surprisingly clean inside. I picture Carl sitting here in early morning, the light of the sunrise shining pink in his engrossed eyes, comic clutched in his hand and sheriff hat lying in the wagon beside him. I file it away for a later drawing and focus on the boy in front of me as he sits with his back against the trunk of aged bark and looks up expectantly.

It's not until I join him that I fully realize that I don't know where to start. There's so much screwed up stuff that I can tell him. I could describe how I felt when Mason's face dropped as I mentioned Mom or when he pulled back his shirt to show me the reason why his skin was so pale. I could say how helpless I was the days I was alone, following the bank of water skirting through the forest like the monsters that destroyed everyone's lives. I could go into exact detail on how it feels when the reality of all I've lost comes crashing down on me like a wave at times where I'm so _numb;_ when I'm stuck in a never ending desert then suddenly drowning under an ocean.

But I'm _scared_. It's been so refreshing talking to Carl because he reminds me that I'm just a kid and the second I open my mouth he'll realize that childish is one thing I'm not. He'll look at me differently after I peel away the last piece of tape holding my smile together and I don't want that. I want to talk about favorite colors and what the cake looked like on our ninth birthday. I want to ask him questions that I found annoying and stupid at first but soon grew fond of.

"Hey," His careful voice brings me out of the depths of my mind and the gentle smile he gives me when I blink at him sends my thoughts flipping. I think back to yesterday when he dropped the subject of my family's deaths without hesitation and moved on like it was nothing. Would he really treat me differently?

"You don't have to tell me anything, you know. We could just read comics. You still need help reading them anyway." He's trying to cut the heavy air with the joking lilt in his words, but it doesn't really succeed in changing anything.

I take a deep breath and make the decision. I'll speak to him about the beginning: where the water first started to gather and where my hope commenced its draining. It's been gnawing at my strength since before all of this began and I know I need to get it off my chest in order to begin to pick myself up at all. I want to be strong and power through like Beth does with one of those bright and distracting smiles.

So I shake my head and say, "No. It's fine. I need to tell _someone_ and...I trust you." I know it's true as it leaves my mouth but the actuality of it leaves me shocked. I've only been here for a day, but with how the world is now, a day is a lifetime.

"Really?" Carl asks, wide eyes crinkling with the force of the smile he's sporting. I can't help but notice the way his freckles stand out more when he does that and I'm momentarily distracted in absorbing his features. It's something I did a lot. Before. I haven't been able to give up the habit yet and with someone like Carl walking around, it's not going away anytime soon.

"Yeah." I mumble back to him. I feel my cheeks heat up with how vulnerable I just made myself and I duck my head to hide it, sending my fingers into the grass to pick at the yellow dandelions standing proud on tall stems. They make small snaps as they're broken and twisted together in my palms. "I do."

I pluck up another flower and begin, "My Dad was my best friend. We were a lot alike, and we never really were father and daughter because he treated me like an equal. He was the owner of this big deal photography company and when I was little, I always wanted to take pictures like he did. But since my parents didn't trust me with cameras, I taught myself how to draw. We used to go to this place called Millie's and sit for hours. I'd draw people and he'd just take pictures of anything and everything. The owner was my favorite to draw. She was Millie's granddaughter and her name was Beck. She had the prettiest eyes. Blue, just like yours. She didn't mind posing for pictures so there was an entire folder of her on my Dad's computer. He had a lot of those. Most of them were of my Mom, though. They loved each other more than I've ever seen anyone love before." I pause when the memories hit the exact spot I don't want them to. "That's why it was so hard."

Carl scoots closer to me so that our arms make contact with each other and I feel the warmth of his skin through Mason's jacket. It helps send the shake in my breath back to where it came from and brings more tears in my eyes simultaneously. _No crying_ , I remind myself as Carl plucks the hat off of his hair and lets it fall onto his thighs. I make the mistake of meeting those serious and dark rimmed eyes. "What happened to him?"

I follow the invisible lines that connect the small dots of sienna on his pale skin and try to distract my thoughts from hanging on to what I'm about to say. Even when I know it's inevitable to veer them away. "He traveled a lot for business. He was never gone more than a month, but it was still hard. He was on a flight back from Greece when...when something happened to the plane..and, and," I bite down on my wobbling bottom lip in frustration and squeeze my eyes shut.

The fragile petals protruding from the flowers crinkle under the force of my grip. The loud pounding drowning all sound from my ears is too distracting for me to notice. "No one survived the crash."

My chest is tight with the emotion that's molded together in the back of my throat. It's fighting to escape, hurting, and I'm trying my hardest to not let it win. Carl brings his knees to his chest beside me, sending a shine of gold into my eyes as his hat falls to the ground and catches the sun. I watch as he places his chin against the material of his cargo pants and looks out into the distance to distract me from how hard it is to breathe right now. "I know how that feels." He mumbles quietly and before I can scoff at the comment he continues, "I thought my Dad was dead in the beginning of all of this. Shane said he'd died in the hospital."

"But he hadn't." My voice is croaky and the fragility laced into my words has me giving up the goal of seeming strong to Carl. It's time that I accept the fact that I can't pretend to be something I'm not around this boy. He breaks down my barriers faster than my mom ever could and she was really good at it.

Carl shakes his head against his legs, lips lifting in a melancholy smile. "It probably doesn't make you feel better, but I just want you to know that I know what it feels like to lose your dad."

I was wrong about him. Turns out he did understand, even if that understanding was no longer lingering. I nudge his shoulder with mine to capture his attention and when I do so, I find that the tension affecting my rib cage has eased away. My eyes feel tired, an effect caused by my crying into Glenn's shirt earlier, no doubt. "It helps. Everything you've done so far has helped me."

His eyebrows furrow but a shine that has me feeling light sparkles in his irises. "Even the questions? I thought they annoyed you."

I break another stem and weave it into my contraption of yellow and green without looking down. "They do. But, they also remind me that everything isn't completely gone. We still have the memories of before and that's…," I trail off when I realize that what I'm about to say is ingrained into my brain from nights ago. "That's what counts."

The wave crashes over me and this time I'm determined not to let it drag me down. I shut my eyes tight and breathe. Just breathe.

 _You're gonna beat it. All of this._

 _They wouldn't want you in pain over them._

 _Fight with everything you have._

 _You can do it without me. You only need yourself._

 _I love you, kiddo._

The frantic beats sounding from my heart slow gradually. Exhaustion creeps up on me as I let out a sigh that I'm not sure strikes as being relieved or tortured. I want to sleep for a long time, but I know nightmares will block my path of torpidity. It's pointless, as it has been for the past four nights. The demons in them have come since this all was initiated, but they were softer. Dreadful, but not so atrocious that I'd wake up screaming and covered in droplets of sweat. The newly developed ones are agonizing, so much so that I'm afraid when I shut my eyes at night. People are ripped apart, body parts are strewn around dark backdrops and the undead's decaying fingers crawl around inside of my stomach to satisfy their hunger. The detail that ruins me the most is being alive while they tear me apart and having to stare into their milky white eyes. Eyes that once belonged to my mom and brother.

I believe that there is nothing worse than seeing someone you love become a monster.

"You need to stop thinking about it."

Carl's amiable tone brings me back again. I've been staring at the flat and worn wheels of the wagon beside us, lost in the dark change of my mind. I turn to him. "Thinking about what?"

"Your family."

I try to morph my expression into the definition of innocence and not show how right he is in his assumption. "How do you know I'm thinking about them?"

The way his eyes move when he looks at me shows that he doesn't buy my facade at all. A freckled hand moves to touch a part of my jacket. "There's a loose thread right here. When you were telling me about your dad, you were touching it. And you were just doing the same thing, so I guessed."

I realize he's right. One hand was busy with flowers while the other was playing with the frayed section of camouflage. "You're very observant." I remark, running the green string between two of my fingers. I wonder how long it's been there; how long I've been unconsciously messing with it.

"Don't think about your family." His face scrunches up after the words leave his mouth. "No, think about them, but not about the bad stuff. Think about the fun things, like what you told me yesterday. The beach, the fireworks, the cotton candy. With my dad, I thought about how he used to help me with my homework and talk to me about all the cool stuff he did at work before I had to go to bed. I tried not to think about _how_ or _when_ he died, but sometimes I did. I didn't like doing it, though, so I stopped. You should too."

I nod absentmindedly, processing his words and how wrong I've been going about coping. Glenn was right; the way you cope does decide how you survive. You can sit and mull over it until you tear yourself apart or you can move on and choose to be better than that.

I choose better.

"You're right." I admit firmly, holding up the line of interwoven flowers I've created. One glance at the boy beside me gives me an idea. I quickly lace together the first and last stems and place the newly constructed circle onto his head of brown hair. Carl crinkles his nose at the sudden action, eyes rolling upwards to get an impossible view of the flower crown resting above him. An exuberant grin forms after he realizes that what he's doing is pointless and he lets out a small chuckle. He looks like the embodiment of summer; blue and yellow and bright.

"What's this for?"

I shrug and tuck a chunk of curls behind my ear, briefly focusing on the fact that I need to find some hair ties. "Being so observant, I guess. Without that, I never would have told you anything." I'm good - at least I think I am - at hiding what I feel unless someone makes an effort to peel away my shield. Force made it shatter like glass and Glenn and Carl both own hammers.

"So you're thanking me...with flowers?"

The tone he uses brings out a chuckle from the part of me that's still luminous. "I don't have anything else. Plus, they make you look happy." They really do. With the smile I've already memorized for drawing purposes overpowering the scowl he's trying to showcase and the delighted gleam shining in that light blue-gray, Carl represents everything I miss and want to be.

He represents everything I'm not.

Carl collects the plants from the top of his head with considerate hands, delicately placing the ring on the foundation of his kneecaps. The pads of his fingers touch the feeble yellow of the petals for a moment before they're reaching for the rim of Rick's hat. Maybe the piece of apparel means the same to him as Mason's jacket does to me. It's a warm blanket that you habitually cuddle into for solace; for strength when you're drained and need it more than you ever have before. Or maybe he wears it because it's a symbol of endurance. Both of its owners suffered through wounds that are difficult to come back from and are now living through an epidemic that seemed impossible before. Carl could admire showing it off because it reminds him that he's a survivor and can be as strong as his dad is, or even more.

It's weird how something as simple as clothing could give us courage.

"You _could_ have shown me your sketchbook." He murmurs, eyebrows raised and expression innocent. The playfulness emanating from his eyes brings on the snapping of the band I didn't even know was wrapped tight around my stomach and the relief that's been waiting for freedom fills the space instead. He's still treating me as if I was a friend he'd met on the school playground. Pity was absent from every part of him.

I laugh longer than I should following his statement and I know it's because of the reprieve of the dread that's been clandestinely festering inside of me. "Nope."

"But-"

"It didn't work." A new voice, annoyed and bitter cuts off what Carl was about to argue back with. The both of us search for the owner and Carl unabashedly lets out a small laugh when we find him.

I, on the other hand, reserve the shakes of laughter wanting to bubble from my lips with a hard bite to my bottom lip. Glenn journeys the last few steps needed to position himself in front of me and wipes the hand not occupied by the hat with cloudy liquid gradually crawling down the rim and dripping down onto the overgrown grass, against his forehead to stop the substance from entering his miffed eyes.

"It's not funny." He defends, but it sounds more like a whine.

I cough to hide the chuckle I couldn't hold back and push myself up from the support of the trunk, not being able to repress a small grunt from the soreness left over after yesterday. I scan his body and the humor of the situation almost gets to me again. The tear stains created by my small breakdown earlier are now replaced with gooey spots of yellow and jagged pieces of light brown lying on his shoulders. "Did she…" A giggle slips out and I cast my hand over my mouth to stop it from further escaping. Glenn sends me a glare, but it's clear by the twitch of his mouth that he's slightly amused as well. "Did she _egg_ you?"

Carl's resistance fails from behind me and his chortles bring an unstoppable smile to my face. Glenn appears both wounded and entertained by mine and Carl's admiration of the hilarity presented with the large puddle of goop sitting in a nest-like burrow in his midnight hair. "I asked her to talk to me."

I can't keep the shake out of my voice as I nod and interject, " _That_ clearly didn't go as planned."

The man sighs, swiping at the part of yolk gathering on the hairs of his brow. "She asked me for my hat, which I obviously gave to her and...she put an egg in it. I think you can guess what happened next." A distant look clouding his eyes follows his description and the grin that's been building on his lips gets pulled downwards with the force of his futile attempt to get the girl.

The comedy of what has happened is suddenly drawn from me at the sight. "Here," I mumble, my tone softer and heavy with guilt. "I'll help you clean up since it's technically my fault this happened to you." Glenn sends me a thankful smile that turns solemn the longer it stays. I doubt he really needs help, but I think he's smart enough to know that I wouldn't take no for an answer.

I promptly turn to obtain my sword that I'd laid on the grass before my talk with Carl and meet his eyes. They've turned to the light grey they were yesterday when we were walking to meet his dad; when he'd first found me. My fingers twitch against the strap connected to the wakizashi. It's an involuntary action that had begun when I was five and got the incredible urge to draw. To this day I haven't discovered how to stop it. I offer up a departing smile that's not as hard to make anymore. "Someday I'll show it to you. Maybe." At the moment I'm content with the sketchbook being stashed away in the tent Andrea and I share. The woman may irritate me by seeing me as a kid and only a kid, but she isn't nosy enough to go snooping through my bag.

His face lights up and he nods, clearly pleased with my assurance. I know that he'll never get to see it though, because by the time I'm comfortable with opening up about all the faces of my past, the pages will be filled with him. I won't be able to resist drawing him when I'm comfortable enough to let my guard down here and take out my pencils.

And him seeing how much his face triggers my artistic side is something I'm almost positive I will never be complacent with.

* * *

 **Happy New Year!**

 **Wow, I actually updated in less than a month this time!? This chapter is small, but I really wanted to get something out today so soak this all up.**

 **Writing this is really making me miss Glenn, but it's so fun to develop a relationship with Nevaeh and him.**

 **And the Carl and Nevaeh dynamic is strong!? Or maybe that's just me thinking my writing is good when it's actually crap like I do all the time until like a day after I publish it.**

 **So let me know what you think if you feel like typing on whatever technological device you're on.**

 **And, as always...**

 **HAPPY READING**


	8. 08

**I updated in less than a week!?**

* * *

Dale's expression when Glenn and I come upon the RV makes me smile.

The man stands up, the sun-bathed umbrella casting a red glow around him. "Glenn? What happened?"

I hold my hand above my eyebrows to keep the shine out of my eyes, answering for Glenn who is currently shuffling through a dirt and blood smeared cooler, most likely searching for a bottle of water to wash his hair with. "Maggie egged him." One part of me feels guilty but another one wants to burn the image into my brain so that I can draw it later.

His eyebrows raise and the lines almost drowning under the grey of his beard deepen as he smiles. "Oh dear." I hear him mutter, the words being followed by a chuckle. "I recommend you use the sink in the RV to wash up."

"Yeah. Okay." Glenn sends him a grateful glance before turning to me. "Could you ask Carol for a clean shirt?"

The fact that he's trying to respect that I want to aid him helps the worry that bombards me over talking to the woman diminish the slightest bit. "Sure." I respond, spinning on my heels and moving further into the camp where the clothing lines are hung. I think about just grabbing a shirt and running back to the mobile home, but the risk that the sizes could be all wrong keeps me looking for the gray haired woman.

I find her clipping a damp pair of jeans onto a line, eyes as distant as Rick's were when he'd been marking up the map consisting of theories of Sophia's whereabouts. Nerves jumble around inside of my stomach and I roll my eyes at the feeling. _It's just a woman, Nevaeh. It's not like it's a walker._ The words echoing around my head don't help one bit and I hate myself for being so afraid to speak to her only because I'm not her daughter.

"Carol?" I call out over the disarray transpiring under my skin. She angles her head towards me slowly, arms now encompassing her form like a layer of armor. She's trying to keep herself from crumbling under the weight of her heart just like I am and the thought that we're both nervous about speaking to each other helps me force out my next words. "Um, Glenn needs a new shirt and I'm not sure which ones fit him so...could you help me?"

Carol offers me a smile, soothing and poignant all in one, and nods her head. "Of course, sweetie."

I'm not sure why such a kind term causes my heart to drop to my feet.

She leads me around the trunks of two large and dry-leaved trees before grabbing a shirt off a particularly heavily loaded line. The orange-yellow material is handed to me and the warmth of the fabric from being victim to the Sun by some means calms me enough to meet her eyes. I smile back at her because, after Carl, I know how much it can help. "Thank you."

Her voice is soft when she replies, "It's no problem. Do you have those clothes you wore yesterday? I don't think we've gotten the chance to wash them yet."

"Oh." I had totally forgotten that the clothing would be wanted for washing. I want to smack my palm against my forehead. "Yes, I do. They're in my tent, I'll get them for you."

And just like that, the conversation is over. It leaves me feeling hollow as I trek back the tent I share with Andrea, Glenn's soon-to-be shirt crumpled into a ball by the curling of my fingers. It's the one piece keeping the words, 'I'm okay' from being a lie. Objects keep me in check more than people do, I guess. They're more concrete. Always there, never a desirable meal for walkers. Mason's jacket and other random things - just like this shirt - are reliable. They'll never leave without my say so.

Andrea sits on the sun-dried red sleeping bag invading half of the dirty and dead grass occupied ground of the sheltered square, royal blue bandana skirting over the sterling silver of the knife I've seen in her hands abnormally often. It's something that should probably scare me but doesn't. She can protect herself. That's all I need to know to be able to close my eyes in here at night.

We don't share words as I enter and unzip the dusty grey bag that's lain against my back since the beginning. I can feel her eyes on me though, burning a hole through the side of my head with the sharp blue that had me feeling that same intimidation that creeped up on me with Rick. My fingers brush against the light blue cover of the thick sketchbook inside, the sticker that reads _Sketches By Nevy_ in a soft pink causing me to clear my throat. That had been a Christmas gift from Mason. He'd always been way too overjoyed when that holiday came around, wearing a santa hat with a huge white fluffy ball hanging off the tip when he wouldn't have been looked at like he was crazy. He was the worst present wrapper I'd ever seen and on Christmas morning he'd end up helping me unwrap my own gift because he was too excited to wait.

I'm so absorbed in the memories of watching the snow under blankets with warm mugs of hot cocoa warming up my insides that I jump when Andrea's voice meets my ears. I look to her with wide eyes and it's then that I realize I'm smiling. I don't let the truth of how the world is now diminish it. "What?"

She's staring at me, eyes slightly narrowed in a calculating way. "We're going out to look for Sophia when Rick gets through with talking to Hershel about the barn situation. You're still coming along right?"

A pang of dread hits me when I realize I still have to tell Carl about that. I can't just leave without at least letting him know and I don't even want to focus on what's going to happen with the barn. "Yeah." I answer, moving past the colorful ringed book and snatching the filthy bundle that is my clothes out of the pocket before zipping it back up again. "You still have a problem with me going out there?" I congratulate myself on my challenging tone.

Andrea tucks the bandana under the yellowed pillowcase beside her and shakes her head. "I respect that you're taking up for yourself. I was wrong with what I said yesterday. My way of thinking was that the only kids I've seen in this thing have been...weak." She stares at me straight on, that fierce blue showing no trace of uncertainty. "You aren't."

I want to protest with her, tell her that I might be the weakest person in this camp, but I don't. She thinks I'm strong and I _want_ people to think that. I nod in gratitude, my personal and slight resentment towards her being melted away. She wasn't _that_ bad.

A corner of her lips curve in return before she continues speaking. "We're meeting up by the green car in five minutes to discuss the plan. I was about to go get my gun from the RV. You comin'?"

I glance down at my hands, clean fabric in one, dirty in the other. "Could you get my gun for me? I have to get these to Carol." I hold up the yellow tank top and shorts. "Glenn also needs his shirt because his other one got...dirty and I have to go let Carl know where I'm going, so could you also give it to him for me? He should still be in the RV cleaning up."

Andrea takes the wrinkled ball from my fist, no annoyance visible in her expression. Or maybe she's just really good at hiding it. "What type of gun is it?"

My throat constricts. "It's a Glock 19."

"K." She stands, shoves the knife into the waistband of her jeans. "See you in five."

Another conversation over, this one giving me a sense of accomplishment instead of the consternation of uninhabited space. She'd accepted who I was - or rather what I wanted to be seen as - and moved on to bring me into the fold. I wasn't a weakling in the eyes of adults. Not anymore, not ever again.

I retrace my steps back from where I came from speaking to Carol. A leaf, a sign of moribund for the trees hovering far above my head falls from its habitat on a branch and into the wild and tangled curls of my hair. I stop in my tracks, reaching for it. A hole punctures through the middle, the light brown of death spreading from it like a disease. It reminds me of how the world is now; the walkers are the brown and me and everyone else still alive are the green.

I push away the thought that it'll all eventually be the same bleak color the longer it lays on the ground as I crumble it in my fingertips and let it get blown by the breeze shifting through the air. It seems like all the pretty things left after the end of the world are depressing, though, at the same time, being depressing is what makes them pretty.

Carol's standing at one of the wooden picnic tables when I spot her, submerged in a metal bucket up to her elbows. A small pile of clothes sits next to her and she grabs an item from it after securing a saturated salmon shirt on the line behind her with pins. Her movements are mechanical, her mind clearly somewhere else. I hope she's reflecting on something happy, but the anguish written on her face tells me it's quite the opposite.

I paint on a smile when I approach her so it'll ease the awkwardness that will no doubt shadow us. "Here." I mumble gingerly.

She takes the clothes from my hands and places them on the stack beside her after adding another piece to the black wire above. Now would be a good time to walk away; I've done my part, I don't need to stay. But I do. There isn't anyone else around besides T-Dog who sits on a bench about ten feet away and I can't accept that. I stare into the soapy water tinged with dirt, my lips pursed as I grasp onto a topic of conversation. "Are you the only one who does this?"

A shake of the head. "Lori helps out most of the time." Right. I knew that. I'd seen her washing a shirt yesterday. "Andrea too, occasionally."

Her water-wrinkled fingers curl the cloth of a pair of boxers so that the water is released from them. The sight of a boy's underwear used to freak me out, but now I don't feel a thing. "I could help out too." I offer. It would make me feel normal and lately that's been something I've craved. "If that's okay."

Her lips lift and the smile is sweet and _real_. "That'd be just fine."

* * *

Hershel sends our plan off the rails when he asks for Rick's help. Only Rick's.

He's an aged man with a receding hairline of white, suspenders cutting across his button up to remind us that he has farming in his blood. His eyes are blue and wrinkled at the edges, the only thing that indicates he was ever happy. They're narrowed as he speaks, all attention zeroed in on the man who was just commanding us on where to go, only skirting away to shoot Andrea and I a nod of acknowledgment. His voice is worn with the strain of life, but it's definite and leaves no room for argument after he shuts down Andrea's request of joining them. I keep my lips sewn shut throughout the entire exchange and study the man as he folds up the pale blue sleeves of his shirt with gentle fingers.

Rick handles him well. He doesn't back down and speaks with respect. I watch them as they walk further away, Andrea rolling up the map behind me and heading to the barn to 'keep watch'. She'd glanced at me with raised eyebrows, a clear invitation to go with her, but I'd shaken my head immediately. As of now, I didn't want to go near that thing. I might have another breakdown and Andrea was the person I least wanted to be there for that.

I stare at the farmhouse a distance away, squinting at the strong reflection of the white in the Sun and debating on whether or not I want to do what I'm thinking. It could help me or it could destroy me.

But it's worth a shot.

I stuff my gun that's still lying on the hood of the car into the waistband of my capris and journey over to the RV stationed a short way from the line of cars and angle my head up, letting out an irrepressible snort when I see the sight above. Glenn frowns down at me, weight supported by the long rifle in his hands. "What do you want?" He pouts, but his tone is playful.

I shake my head at his amusing behavior, not bothering to quell my smile. "I'm heading up to the house, thought I'd let you know. I'll put in a good word for you if I see Maggie."

"Really?" The expression of happiness that he shoots at me itches memories of Mason that for once don't make my heart hurt. I'm trying so hard to get the pain to stop; maybe I'm finally succeeding.

"It's the least I could do." I reply, teeth attacking my lip as I get lost in my mind. "Maybe try to talk to her _one_ more time. And this time, don't give her your hat. I happen to like Dale's choice of clothing."

He rolls his dark eyes under the beige rim, but his teeth are showing in a grin. "Noted."

I chuckle and swivel around to start the trek up to the antique structure, my eyes involuntarily landing on Carl's form leaning against a tree separate from where we'd stationed ourselves this morning. He's too absorbed in the thick book - obviously not a comic, something that surprises me - to notice me passing and I almost join him, but I'm trying to wait until right before we leave to tell him where I'm going. That way he has no way to stop me and if I sit next to him it'll spill out of my mouth without consent.

So I fix my stare back on the lazily deteriorating home and force myself to stop looking for distractions to stall me from doing what I'm about to do. I'm the one who wants to do it; I know it'll help me if I can get through it without disintegrating into a pile of flesh and bones and torment. It shouldn't be such a big deal, but my mind tells me it is and the fanciful concrete walls surrounding me with sunlight peeking through the cracks agree too.

The rattling of the screen door when I knock my fist against it sounds far away in my ears. "It's open!" A light voice calls, the fragility and steadiness concurrent in a way that I can understand. I walk in the cool aired foyer, avoiding the view of myself depicted back at me in the mirror placed against the opposite wall and continuing into the living room of sorts to the right. The antique smell of the place takes me by surprise again and I inhale a deep breath, both to calm myself and to savor the air that doesn't smell like corpses.

Beth sits on a circular wooden stool painted black, hands pressing against random keys of the dark wood piano that looks just about as old as the man who owns the property. Yellow creeps up on the edges of some of the keys, others so white they look brand new. Her blue-green eyes are blank as she focuses on pressing more of the musical notes, stopping after sinking the very last one, a deep and dark sound echoing through the empty rooms even after her hands are bundled together in her lap. She smiles up at me. "Nevaeh, hey!" She greets pleasantly. I'm envious of how easily she can be nice and lively, but that doesn't stop my lips from twitching upwards. "What's up?"

"I, uh," I get momentarily distracted by the wooden frames sitting on top of the instrument, quickly averting my concentration to the band holding one of her bright blonde pigtails in place. I'm too scared to meet her eyes. "I wanted to thank you for the clothes and stuff yesterday. I didn't get the chance to." That's not the real reason I came here, though. I made the hike to see how strong I really was; how long I could speak to someone that's gone through the same thing as me even if it wasn't as harsh.

As of now I'm not doing so bad.

Beth stacks together the papers sitting on the music rack, fingers tapping away against the sheets even after they're as even as they can be with each other. That's the one thing that tells she could be just as nervous as me. She shrugs her shoulders. "It's not a big deal. You were really dirty."

I giggle and some of the the jumpy energy swirling around my stomach releases along with it. Beth joins me when I do and it helps soothe me. Maybe this isn't as hard as I thought it would be. "Yeah I could tell. You looked at me like I was crazy when I got out of the shower."

"I couldn't help it!" She defends, her smile one of those full blown and diverting ones. "You looked disgustin' when Lori brought you here."

"Well that's what happens when you're on your own for _days_."

Damn it.

I hadn't thought my response through and now the hardwood floors suddenly look very interesting and Beth's stare feels like a gunshot wound straight through my forehead. I cross my arms against my chest, running my fingers over the material of Mason's jacket in the crevices of my elbows. This was a bad idea. _I'm so stupid._

"You were alone?" Beth's soft questioning sounds rhetorical, but it doesn't really matter if it truthfully is because she's not getting an answer either way. "What about…." She starts up again after my silence and trails off just as quick, interrupting her thought with a breath of, "Oh."

I feel like grabbing the cold piece of metal digging into my back and shooting something. Possibly myself, possibly not. The option honestly doesn't seem that abominable anymore.

But then I remember the promise my pinky made and the boy who conceded to it right in front of me and the one made to a dying man who'd been there for my entire life, bloody with the bite of death.

I run a stressful hand through my hair, the restraint of tears becoming a habit as I blink rapidly. I watch the door a few feet in front of me, wanting to run and escape and almost moving forward to do so, but the miniscule squeak the stool makes as Beth stands catches me off guard and blasts my train of thought off its rails. The breath I let out is heavy as I compel myself to finally meet her eyes. They remind me of Hanalei Bay from that trip I took to Hawaii when I was ten. Turquoise, but not. Tears join together in them to form a picture that brings that leaf from earlier to my mind. Depressingly beautiful.

But pity hides under all that disconsolateness, biting away at my strength like a walker bites through skin. Anger boils down in my stomach and I narrow my eyes at her. Water is gathering in the bottom of mine too and it's so hard to keep a grip on whatever pathetic defenses I have left, but I try.

"I wanna show you somethin'." It's a whisper; a secret. "Follow me." She doesn't move from her spot after the words float through the air and I begin to think she didn't say them when her eyes grow wide and inquisitive, hands grasping her hips.

I keep my gaze threatening as I mull over the potential 'somethings' she could be showing me. I know she's nice, even with the detestable look she's giving me, so it can't be life-threatening.

As if Beth knows exactly what's going through my head, she says, "It's not like I'm gonna kill you." Those eyes roll, still anger-inducingly full of sympathy I don't want. "Besides, I don't have any weapons. You do. Trust me."

I press my lips together. _Trust_. I don't know about it as a whole, but with the vow of not killing me, I do. "Okay." I let go of the arguments flying around my brain with the word and wipe at my eyes even though I haven't let them leak yet. I inhale and say with my breath, "Lead the way."


	9. 09

The attic breaks my heart.

Not because it's decrepit or so hot and thick that it's hard for me to breathe, but because of the boxes to the left of where Beth and I enter. They're multi colored; blue, green, yellow, orange. The letters crawling across the plastic are marred with skinny cracks here and there, but that's not what makes my heart drop through the floor. It's the words. Three names I don't know with other things tacked to them like, _childhood albums, wedding pictures, graduation albums._ They're all no doubt full of smiles and family members that only used to die from old age or an unfortunate case of cancer.

I wanted to graduate.

I wanted to get married.

I _still_ want those things. I still _hope_ for them, too. It's dumb, I know it's dumb, but I do.

I clear my throat, direct my eyes back to the girl who led me up here, "So, why-"

"Help me get the window open."

I blink at the sudden interruption, but move to the pane nonetheless, watching my shadow in the yellow squares cast against the wood flecked floor. The warm air tinged with a slight feel of cold rushes into the torturing space the second we break the seal and I close my eyes as it blows against my skin and tousles the curls sweeping against my cheeks. When I open them again, Beth has disappeared, and I find her at the boxes I'd rather not look at anymore.

Even more so when I notice she's digging through the one that reads: _Beth and Maggie - Childhood Albums_. She pulls out two books - one red and the other white - before venturing back over to me and jerking her head towards the window. "Come on."

She tosses the binders out of the frame before following them, barely fitting through. I watch her gather them up in the crook of an arm and go to the railing skirting around the edge, sitting on it and letting her legs hang over. I follow, albeit hesitantly, setting my sword against the peeled siding and keeping my hand a short distance from it as I amble out into the direct sun.

I don't know why I don't swing it over my back. I leave it there and walk to where Beth sits, copying her position. The air doesn't smell like death up here. It smells like dirt and summer even though my cheeks are cold and I'm clutching the camo jacket against my bones. But maybe that's not only because of the breeze.

Her fingers, painted a bright yellow and chipping, lay the book where our thighs are only a centimeter apart. They reach for the red leather worn with dirt and something that looks like a coffee stain and the plastic crackles as it's stretched with the labor of opening.

There's a baby on the first page. Light pink frosting smears across its pale and flushed face. The eyes are wide and I don't have to look at them long to realize that the infant I'm looking at is Beth. They're like two large oceans shrunk down, waves gentle and calm. Now, they're harsh and detrimental, pushed by life's experiences.

I wish I had eyes like hers. Or like Carl's. I'm stuck with brown. And not like Glenn's eyes that have pieces of gold hidden among them. Mine are just...brown. Boring, regular, everyday brown.

I eye the scramble of wavy blonde hair dotted on her premature scalp and the large grin she sports as her chubby fingers dig into the cake smudged on the high chair she sits in. A girl stands in the background. The first thing I notice about her is the ripped jeans exposing her knees and part of her thighs. Her shirt is a dark, dark shade of green and exposes most of her stomach. The scowl her mouth is twisted into spoils her pretty features; green eyes outlined in black eyeliner and grey eyeshadow and brown hair cut just above her chin. The cigarette sticking out of her pocket doesn't go unnoticed by me and I'm thrown off by how young she looks. She can't be any older than me.

The familiarity of her doesn't hit until a few seconds after. "Is that Maggie!?"

Beth smiles softly. "Yeah. She...didn't like me for a long time. We didn't start to get close till her senior year. And then she went for college."

I turn my gaze to the white stick protruding from denim. "She smoked."

"For a year or two, yeah. Daddy made her stop at sixteen, said it'd ruin her life if she kept on doin it. She was mad at him for a while, me too cause I snitched, but it got better. _She_ got better."

I don't know what to say, so I just nod and flip to the next page. It's another one of Beth, older, maybe nine or ten. She's wearing a white dress trimmed in a royal blue, trailing behind her as she runs from a boy that appears to be around my age. His hair is windblown and chocolate brown, disheveled across his forehead as he chases after the young version of the girl chuckling beside me. I can see his eyes, bays of clear blue water identical to hers. He's cute.

"That's Shawn," she says. That had been one of the names on the boxes, I realize with a pang. "My brother."

The words are on the tip of my tongue. I come close to not saying them, but can't hold back the curiosity. "Where is he now?"

There's a beat. She sniffs. "He's sick."

I go back, try to remember anyone mentioning there being someone sick in the house, hearing a cough, or seeing someone coming and going with glasses of water and medication.

Nothing. I come up blank. "Sick? Is he in the house?"

"Uh, no," Beth answers. I angle my head up to capture her stare. She looks younger somehow, with the bright blonde pigtails flowing over her shoulders and eyes big and vulnerable; a spitting image of the picture below. "Daddy keeps him in the barn. He and Maggie won't let me see him anymore."

My inhale gets stuck in my throat.

" _What?_ " My voice is so small and afraid I'm not even sure she hears me. My eyes are bulging out my skull and I can't process anything except for five words. Over and over again.

 _The barn's full of walkers._

 _The barn's full of walkers._

 _The barn's full of walkers._

Beth's fingers trace over the page and she sighs. The action just seems creepy to me now. Am I hyperventilating? I think I'm hyperventilating. "My mom's there too. She got sick around the same time Shawn did."

 _The. Barn. Is. Full. Of. Walkers._

" _Sick!?_ " It's the only word I can manage to blab out. It echoes in the air and Beth flinches back like it's shocked her. "That's what you think they are? Sick?"

She blinks at me like I'm crazy and I almost snap at her again. I am not the crazy one here. She is. "Well, yeah. They just need some help. Medicine."

I sputter for a good five seconds before I can get a grip on the English language. "Some help? _Medicine_? Are you insane? They eat people. _Down to the bone_. Have you ever seen that happen to someone? They're _monsters_. They take things you love, things you never thought you'd have to live without. People. They destroy lives! That can't be cured with, with _medicine_. You have to stab or shoot them." I point a finger against her forehead, right between her eyebrows. " _Right. Here_.

"Or you're gone. You get _sick_ , you die, you come back as a monster. Your mom and brother aren't _sick_ , Beth, they're _dead_." I take breaths, pull my hand away from her. Images flash in my mind, blurring together, a terrible concoction of blood and gore. "Just..just like mine."

I feel the tears spill over and onto my cheeks but I don't wipe them away. I just let them fall. And suddenly Beth is sobbing next to me and guilt drops into my stomach like a stone and I hate myself for what I've just said to her and done to myself. I don't know what to do anymore, I'm all out of anger towards her. It wasn't her fault in the first place, anyway. It's her father's for telling her that lie, giving her hope that things could be normal again.

I need to stop letting my mouth speak first.

I've always done that.

I cast my head down and find myself face to face with the picture again. I scan the boy's features repeatedly, imagining his voice, his laugh. The smile spreading across his lips on the paper is what I would classify as eye-catching. It's the main subject of the photo - well, Beth almost had him beat with the excitement she displayed in a baby face framed by a messy blonde braid. He looks carefree and happy and I'm glad that's all I get to know him as; a young teenager who loved living.

"I guess it'd be nice to think like that," I mumble in the sound of Beth's sniffles. "That they could get better, that you'd be able to hug them again, kiss them goodbye in the morning." I let out a groan at the hot tears that roll down my cheeks and join the others. "Why'd you even bring me up here?"

"I thought...I don't know." Beth admits, eyes like that river that'd I'd followed at sunrise those days I'd been alone. The sun reflects in them so beautifully that my fingers start twitching and I shove them together to stop it. "Things have been wrong for a long time and no one wants to accept it, I don't even want to accept it. But you do. I thought," She bites at her lip as she tries to formulate her words, wipes a hand across her cheek, her nose. "That it'd help. I don't know." She repeats helplessly, choking on another sob.

She's just as lost as me and I don't know how to fix something on her that I can't even manage myself. My eyes travel around to anything but her, absorbing the view. I'd been too distracted with whatever was happening here to consume it. There's so much land expanding from us and out in all directions, completely void of anything but a few shiny tractors and fencing. A windmill creaks with the force of the breeze and sends sun rays shattering against the grass. The cluster of trees that I've begun to call _my_ camp has some members of the group weaving in between them, transferring clothes to different lines or just absentmindedly letting their feet carry them along as they think.

The red and white umbrella is a big splotch of color against the monochrome-like landscape. A shape moves along the top of the RV it sits upon, yellowish shade giving me the answer that it's Glenn still keeping watch. Dale's fishing hat is flopping on his head and it briefly brightens my mood. I still need to talk to that man; still need to figure out what happened to that baby he'd said his wife was pregnant with.

I hate the almost certainty that it's dead.

"I think I should go." I mumble into the air. This situation is getting worse and worse the longer we drag it out and I think it'd be better if we both stopped crying. I slam the book acting as a bridge between our legs closed and hand it to her with a heavy heart. "We'll talk later, okay? Hopefully about something different?"

Her answering smile is relieving and I find myself returning it despite the water gathering on both of our chins. "Later," she agrees. "Sick or not sick."

I tuck my hair behind my ear and swing my legs back over the rail and onto solid wood. "Sick or not sick." I agree. Maybe it'd be nice to do what she does. To pretend.

But, I realize as my hand wraps around the sheath of my sword, that's hard to do when everything around you screams _never let your guard down._

I'm halfway down the stairs, submerged once again in the antique scent of the aged house and I still can't get it out of my head. Beth isn't who I thought she was. I'm not even sure who that was, but she's different.

Not good or bad, but just... _different._

Sick or not sick. It's disturbing how that can apply to more than just physical sickness now.

* * *

I head back to the camp.

I have striking up a conversation with Dale in mind, maybe even washing and pinning up some clothes while trying to make decent small talk with Carol when my name is called from across the grass.

Carl runs up to me, hat shifting along his bangs and cheeks flushed pink from the minor adrenaline rush. His freckles stand out more against the color, more prominent than ever. Fingers adjust the rim to a better position before bright eyes sparkle at me. "Do you wanna play checkers?"

"Checkers?" Summers spent inside my grandfather's home return to my mind. Chewing on molasses cookies and helping plant the garden he treasured in the backyard, my dirty and old short overalls with marker doodles all over the denim, Mason screaming over colorful beetles crawling up his legs, the stone hard concentration on his face as we sat across from each other and moved red and black pieces across a board, the creaky wooden swing in the backyard, painted a burgundy that was admired by the grandmother that had died before her eyes ever met mine.

Carl's eyebrows furrow, the expression foreign on him. "Yeah, checkers. There's two sides and you move-"

"I know what checkers is, you troglodyte."

The boy blinks, wrinkles his nose in a way that has me smiling. "What is that?"

"Don't know, Mason used to say it a lot." It surprises me how easy it is for me to say his name around Carl, to remember the edge of laughter in his voice whenever he'd say it. "I said it like that because I wanted to know why you want to play _checkers_ out of all the other games we could possibly play."

He shrugs, fingers picking at the unbuttoned part of his cargo pants. They're too big for him, rolled up against his ankles and hanging over his sneakers. "Sophia and I played it a lot."

The pit in my stomach clenches at the name and sudden glassy look in his darkened eyes. I bite my lip at the surge of pain I feel from the loss that surrounds this place, that surrounds me and clear my throat to hide everything I want so bad to go away, take a hike, jump off a cliff.

"Fine," I sigh. "Checkers it is. I'll whoop you anyway." He scoffs and I cross my arms challengingly. His cheeks are stretching with a smile and the warmth of the Sun is back on my skin. "What, you don't think so?"

He copies my stance, eyes narrowed but playful. "I'm _really_ good at checkers."

"You wanna bet on it?"

"Okay," That smile shifts into a smirk and I immediately want to take back my offer because I _know_ what's coming next. "If I win, you have to show me your sketchbook."

There it is. My mind vetoes the idea in favor of going to find Dale like I originally planned, but the competitive side of me is incredibly overpowering and I find myself nodding. "Fine. And if I win?"

Carl looks hesitant for a moment, his expression as ambitious as mine. "I'll give you a _Big Cat_ bar."

"You have chocolate!?" My taste buds tingle with the memory of the food as my eyes widen. I hadn't had chocolate since a while before the news started swarming with cases of disease. My mom wasn't a health freak, but she was strict when it came to junk food in the house. It took awhile for her to accept my dad and I's trips to Millie's.

"My mom gave it to me on the highway and...I just haven't felt like eating it."

I know what he means all too well. The first time I saw a walker, arms almost completely void of meat, bones visible and covered in a dark color of blood, I didn't eat for a while. Mason offered me a granola bar scavenged from the rush out of our house and onto the road leading to Atlanta every morning and I'd take a bite, but no more after that. We switched roles on that the first time he decapitated one. I can still see the expression he'd had molded onto his face for days; eyes wide and alarmed, scattering to every single detail around the area, searching for something I'd never found out the identity of.

"Well, _Big Cat_ 's are my _favorite_ ," I'm starting to realize how one of us creates tension then the other demolishes it. It's becoming our thing and I know it's a rubber band that'll snap eventually. I know, but I want to ignore it for as long as I can. "I can't wait to take it off your hands."

He rolls his eyes and I mentally slap myself for getting lost in the color for a second too long. "Whatever," he says blithely, holding his hand out in front of him. The friendly hostility we've established melts off my skin when he extends his pinky out to me. I don't know why I want to burst into tears or why I want to hug him to death or why I want to go grab my sketchbook right now and show him everything, tell him all about what I've seen, what haunts me. "Shake on it."

I'm frozen in my spot, staring a this freckled hand. "You said that that's for kids." I manage to choke out.

"And you said that's exactly what we are. You're right."

The smile spreading across my lips is abrupt. I interlock my pinky with his and we shake before dropping our hands back to our sides. I'm unaware of the reason why he's made me so happy but then again Carl has this...air. It's hard to stay sad around him for an extended period of time.

Even when he mentions the checkerboard sitting on the porch of the farmhouse - where another meeting with Beth will ensue, no doubt - I nod along to his offer of playing it there because he's bright and the metal feel of the gun digging into my back isn't as strong around him.

We're just clearing the line of trees that mark the beginning of the camp, Carl talking about attempting to teach me how to read a comic again tonight, when I look up to a sight that makes my smile grow. Glenn and Maggie stand in the field that acts as a sort of front yard, lip locked and looking pretty darn happy. Before my dad died kissing would disgust me, but seeing it now reminds me that there's still life to live. If something like that can grow, then we can get through this hell.

Before I know it I find myself yelling out in a whoop, nudging Carl with my elbow in indication for him to join in. And then we're both screaming at the couple across the yard, who's broken apart to send us annoyed expressions that soon turn into unstoppable grins and shaking heads. "You're welcome!" I greet Glenn with a soft punch to the shoulder, my chest heaving with the small run I'd just undergone to get to him and the tiredness from using my voice.

I feel the strain in my cheeks caused by the stretch of my lips and it's a nice feeling; happiness. I never knew how addicted I was to it until it began to leave for days at a time with no note to tell me when to expect it again.

"Oh yeah," I turn to Maggie at the realization that I'd never actually had an interaction with her. It felt like I'd already known her for a while, thanks to the pictures. I stick out my hand. "I'm Nevaeh."

Her smile is pretty, green eyes like a forest in spring, sparkling in the light of the sun. She takes my hand in hers. "It's nice to finally meet you. Bethy told me she lent you some clothes yesterday."

"Nice to meet you too. Good job with the egg in the hat, that was hilarious."

She laughs along with Carl, who'd caught up and now stood beside me. Glenn, on the other hand, does not look amused. "Hey!"

"You guys made up; I can make fun of it now." That weight was lifted off of my chest and I feel...light.

We all crack up again, especially after Glenn starts grumbling, bottom lip poked out childishly and arms crossed against his chest. We head up to the house together, Carl close to my side and muttering out brags of how good he was at the game we were about to indulge in. I countered them quickly and in that process learned that the boy is _terrible_ at comebacks. He'd get quiet for a second, stutter, then give up with that glare that I'm absolutely positive looks like a bunny.

But when we sat down on the old chairs set out on the porch, Beth and Patricia already rocking in the other seats set out and becoming invested in our competitive remarks to each other, I wanted to cry.

He was winning.

My stomach dropped when I realized the mistake I made on the board and I wanted to strangle him when he started laughing at my expression. "Shut your face, Carl."

He laughs harder, eyes completely shutting and crinkling at the corners. I really want to take a picture, not even draw, just capture him in the moment; hat laying lopsided against his messy hair, smile so wide that I swear I can _feel_ it rubbing off on me. It's so unfair how easy it is for him to do that. He's a blazing fireball and I'm a snowbank sitting out in the dark after being pummeled by kids who'd started snowball fights but had gotten too cold to finish them.

Carl's giggles eventually fade out, and he's left breathing heavily in front of me with flushed cheeks and an amused spark highlighting that blue. "So..your sketchbook."

" _No._ "

He sputters at the turn in my voice but recovers quicker than I thought he would. His eyes abruptly grow big, the bluest I've seen them since I'd gotten here. "But, we _promised_."

That did something to my heart. I sigh, avert my gaze to something else besides those pleading eyes. "Only three pages. _Three._ " Just in case he thinks I'm trying to avoid it, just in case he doesn't understand how hard it's going to be for me, I add, " _Please_."

The silence that follows is loud in my ears.

"Uh, yeah." Carl eventually says. He clears his throat. I'm too afraid to look at him. I know that the girl I'm hiding behind curtains is shining through and the second I meet his eyes he'll see her. That's the main person I don't want him to know about. "Yes. Three pages. Deal."

I give myself time to recompose it's crumbled walls before angling my head up to give him a smile of gratitude. He returns it quickly, less large and consuming and more shy, but warming all the same.

I forget about the board of light and dark checkered squares sitting in the space between our bodies for a second.

There's a flash in the corner of my eye. It feels wrong when I tear away from Carl's grin. The shift in my attention is caused by Andrea and T-Dog walking up the dirt path leading from our camp in the trees. The blonde's lips are pulled thin and her eyes are slightly narrowed. "Where is everyone?" Her sharp tone shows the obvious annoyance displayed among her features.

I stand from my seat, sending it rocking against the porch with shrill creaks that barely register. "He still isn't back yet?" I ask her. Carl and I have been playing checkers for a while now, Glenn and Maggie quietly chatting away on the brick steps and Beth and Patricia speaking about the conditions of things on the farm. I hadn't given the man any thought, but now worry grips at my heart in that all too familiar way.

"I haven't seen him since he went out with Hershel," she says, looks away from me to communicate more to the others, "He went off with Hershel. Me, Nevaeh and him were supposed to head out to look for Sophia a while ago."

Carl's stare suddenly feels like burning lasers against the side of my face.

I try to focus on Glenn standing to distract from it, watching his brows furrow and mouth open to say something, only to be spoken over.

"Yeah you were." The voice is gruff, southern twang curling around the three words despite the small number of them. The man from breakfast this morning - the egg gobbler - stomps up a different dusty road from which Andrea and T came from and the first real glance I get at his face sends a spark of fear through my abdomen. His features are aggressive and all at once the courage in my voice is shoved down my throat. "What the hell?"

I don't notice Carol trailing behind him until she adds, "Rick told us he was going out." It's the loudest I've ever heard her speak.

The man walks closer to the rest of the group, his stomps against the ground sending small clouds of dust into the air. "Damn it. Isn't anybody taking this seriously? We got us a damn trail." A buff arm is thrown into the air and I absentmindedly follow the direction it leads.

Shane is smack dab in the middle of where his haphazard hand was thrown. I'm immediately captivated by the long gun held in his left hand, trailing up to the strap thrown across his opposite shoulder - the bag of guns, terrible at shielding the barrels of multiple firearms - before finally moving up to his face. Maybe it's the look in his eyes. The fire that can be seen even from where I stand. It's not the same one that was there when we'd clashed in the RV.

This one is more intense. It's _madness_ , scrunched up in the angry contortion of his face.

Even before he opens his mouth or hands Daryl the gun, I know that he wants to do something bad. Not bad in the sense of stealing a cookie out of the jar before dinner when your mother repeatedly told you not to, _death_ bad. I remind myself of the gun sticking out of my waistband, shrouded by the material of Mason's jacket. _What would he do?_

But I'd answered that question the second I met Shane, realized that he wasn't the same man as Rick is.

Mason would do whatever he could to protect the group. What was that in this situation? I don't know.

But I do know that I'm not as scared of walkers as I am of Shane right now.

I think about the words again.

 _Sick or not sick._

* * *

 **I wrote three different versions of this chapter, it's fine, we're here and we're published. It's not like it's been two months and four days or anything, fine fine fine. My son is dead, but this fanfiction will still go on because I can still milk this beautiful child's story. I just hope you'll hang on through my long and short update wait times to see how this fic unfolds. We hit 60 followers and I wanted to thank you guys for that because I love all of you for taking the time to sit down and read about this character who I struggle so hard to write.**

 **To many more chapters and to much more Carl and Nevaeh being little cuties!**

 **HAPPY READING**


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